'The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.  Title: Pride and Prejudice  Author: Jane Austen  Release Date: June, 1998 [eBook #1342] [Most recently updated: August 23, 2021]  Language: English  Character set encoding: UTF-8  Produced by: Anonymous Volunteers and David Widger  *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ***     THERE IS AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY VIEWED AT EBOOK [# 42671 ]  cover     Pride and Prejudice  By Jane Austen  CONTENTS    Chapter 1    Chapter 2    Chapter 3    Chapter 4    Chapter 5    Chapter 6    Chapter 7    Chapter 8    Chapter 9    Chapter 10    Chapter 11    Chapter 12    Chapter 13    Chapter 14    Chapter 15    Chapter 16    Chapter 17    Chapter 18    Chapter 19    Chapter 20    Chapter 21    Chapter 22    Chapter 23    Chapter 24    Chapter 25    Chapter 26    Chapter 27    Chapter 28    Chapter 29    Chapter 30    Chapter 31    Chapter 32    Chapter 33    Chapter 34    Chapter 35    Chapter 36    Chapter 37    Chapter 38    Chapter 39    Chapter 40    Chapter 41    Chapter 42    Chapter 43    Chapter 44    Chapter 45    Chapter 46    Chapter 47    Chapter 48    Chapter 49    Chapter 50    Chapter 51    Chapter 52    Chapter 53    Chapter 54    Chapter 55    Chapter 56    Chapter 57    Chapter 58    Chapter 59    Chapter 60    Chapter 61     Chapter 1        It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in       possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.        However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be       on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well       fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is       considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their       daughters.        “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you       heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”        Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.        “But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and       she told me all about it.”        Mr. Bennet made no answer.        “Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife       impatiently.        “_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”        This was invitation enough.        “Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is       taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England;       that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the       place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr.       Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before       Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by       the end of next week.”        “What is his name?”        “Bingley.”        “Is he married or single?”        “Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune;       four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”        “How so? how can it affect them?”        “My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so       tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of       them.”        “Is that his design in settling here?”        “Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely       that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you       must visit him as soon as he comes.”        “I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may       send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for       as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you       the best of the party.”        “My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of       beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now.       When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over       thinking of her own beauty.”        “In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”        “But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he       comes into the neighbourhood.”        “It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”        “But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it       would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are       determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you       know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be       impossible for _us_ to visit him, if you do not.”        “You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be       very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to       assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he       chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my       little Lizzy.”        “I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better       than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as       Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always       giving _her_ the preference.”        “They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he;       “they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has       something more of quickness than her sisters.”        “Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way?       You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor       nerves.”        “You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves.       They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with       consideration these twenty years at least.”        “Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”        “But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men       of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”        “It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you       will not visit them.”        “Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will       visit them all.”        Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,       reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty       years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his       character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develop. She was a       woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain       temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous.       The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its       solace was visiting and news.     Chapter 2        Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr.       Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last       always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the       evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It       was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second       daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her       with,        “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”        “We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her       mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”        “But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him       at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.”        “I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two       nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I       have no opinion of her.”        “No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that       you do not depend on her serving you.”        Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain       herself, began scolding one of her daughters.        “Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake! Have a little       compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”        “Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she       times them ill.”        “I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully.       “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?”        “To-morrow fortnight.”        “Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come       back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to       introduce him, for she will not know him herself.”        “Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and       introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_.”        “Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted       with him myself; how can you be so teasing?”        “I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is       certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by       the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else       will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their       chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness,       if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.”        The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,       “Nonsense, nonsense!”        “What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he.       “Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that       is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you       _there_. What say you, Mary? for you are a young lady of deep       reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”        Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.        “While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return       to Mr. Bingley.”        “I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.        “I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so       before? If I had known as much this morning, I certainly would not       have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually       paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”        The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of       Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first       tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she       had expected all the while.        “How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should       persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to       neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is       such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and       never said a word about it till now.”        “Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr.       Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the       raptures of his wife.        “What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the       door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends       for his kindness; or me either, for that matter. At our time of       life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new       acquaintance every day; but for your sakes, we would do       anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest, I dare       say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”        “Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the       youngest, I’m the tallest.”        The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he       would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should       ask him to dinner.     Chapter 3        Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her       five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw       from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley.       They attacked him in various ways; with barefaced questions,       ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the       skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the       second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her       report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with       him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely       agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next       assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To       be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love;       and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.        “If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at       Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the       others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”        In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat       about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained       hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose       beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies       were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of       ascertaining from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and       rode a black horse.        An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and       already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do       credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred       it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day,       and consequently unable to accept the honour of their       invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could       not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his       arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be       always flying about from one place to another, and never settled       at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a       little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to       get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that       Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with       him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of       ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing,       that instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from       London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered       the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether; Mr.       Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another       young man.        Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant       countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine       women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr.       Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon       drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome       features, noble mien, and the report which was in general       circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having       ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine       figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than       Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about       half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned       the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to       be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his       large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most       forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be       compared with his friend.        Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the       principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved,       danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and       talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable       qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him       and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and       once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other       lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the       room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His       character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man       in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there       again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet,       whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into       particular resentment by his having slighted one of her       daughters.        Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen,       to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr.       Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a       conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance       for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it.        “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you       standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much       better dance.”        “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am       particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as       this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and       there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a       punishment to me to stand up with.”        “I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley,       “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant       girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of       them you see uncommonly pretty.”        “_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said       Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.        “Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there       is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very       pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner       to introduce you.”        “Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at       Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly       said, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I       am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies       who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your       partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with       me.”        Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and       Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She       told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for       she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in       anything ridiculous.        The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family.       Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the       Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she       had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified       by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way.       Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned       to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the       neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough       to be never without partners, which was all that they had yet       learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good       spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which       they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still       up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present       occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an       evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had       rather hoped that all his wife’s views on the stranger would be       disappointed; but he soon found that he had a very different story       to hear.        “Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a       most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had       been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it.       Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her       quite beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of _that_,       my dear; he actually danced with her twice; and she was the only       creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all,       he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her;       but, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can,       you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going       down the dance. So he enquired who she was, and got introduced,       and asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with       Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth       with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the       _Boulanger_—”        “If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband       impatiently, “he would not have danced half so much! For God’s       sake, say no more of his partners. Oh that he had sprained his       ankle in the first dance!”        “Oh! my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively       handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never in my life       saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace       upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown—”        Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any       description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another       branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of       spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.        “But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much       by not suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid       man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that       there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there,       fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance       with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one       of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”     Chapter 4        When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been       cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her       sister how very much she admired him.        “He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,       good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so       much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”        “He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man       ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is       thereby complete.”        “I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second       time. I did not expect such a compliment.”        “Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference       between us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_       never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He       could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as       every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for       that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave       to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.”        “Dear Lizzy!”        “Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in       general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good       and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a       human being in my life.”        “I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always       speak what I think.”        “I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With       _your_ good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and       nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough;—one       meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or       design—to take the good of everybody’s character and make it       still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone.       And so, you like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners       are not equal to his.”        “Certainly not; at first. But they are very pleasing women when       you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother,       and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a       very charming neighbour in her.”        Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their       behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in       general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy       of temper than her sister, and with a judgment too unassailed by       any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve       them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good       humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of       being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited.       They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first       private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand       pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and       of associating with people of rank; and were therefore in every       respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of       others. They were of a respectable family in the north of       England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories       than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired       by trade.        Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred       thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an       estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it       likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was       now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was       doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his       temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at       Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.        His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own;       but though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley       was by no means unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs.       Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less       disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.       Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by       an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did       look at it, and into it for half an hour, was pleased with the       situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner       said in its praise, and took it immediately.        Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in       spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to       Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper,       though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own,       and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the       strength of Darcy’s regard Bingley had the firmest reliance, and       of his judgment the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was       the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was       clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and       fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting.       In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was       sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually       giving offence.        The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was       sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with       pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been       most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no       stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and as       to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful.       Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom       there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had       felt the smallest interest, and from none received either       attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,       but she smiled too much.        Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still they       admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl,       and one whom they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet       was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt       authorised by such commendation to think of her as he chose.     Chapter 5        Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the       Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been       formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable       fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to       the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been       felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business       and to his residence in a small market town; and, quitting       them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile       from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he       could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled       by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the       world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him       supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody.       By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation       at St. James’s had made him courteous.        Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a       valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The       eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about       twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.        That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk       over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the       assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to       communicate.        “_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with       civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first       choice.”        “Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”        “Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice.       To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather       believe he _did_—I heard something about it—but I hardly know       what—something about Mr. Robinson.”        “Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson;       did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he       liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there       were a great many pretty women in the room, and _which_ he       thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last       question—‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt, there       cannot be two opinions on that point.’”        “Upon my word! Well, that was very decided indeed—that does seem       as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”        “_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,”       said Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as       his friend, is he?—Poor Eliza!—to be only just _tolerable_.”        “I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his       ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man that it would       be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last       night that he sat close to her for half an hour without once       opening his lips.”        “Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?” said       Jane. “I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”        “Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and       he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed very       angry at being spoke to.”        “Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much       unless among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is       remarkably agreeable.”        “I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very       agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how       it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare       say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage,       and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.”        “I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas,       “but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”        “Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with       _him_, if I were you.”        “I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with       him.”        “His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as       pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot       wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune,       everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I       may so express it, he has a _right_ to be proud.”        “That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily       forgive _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.”        “Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of       her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all       that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common       indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that       there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of       self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or       imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the       words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without       being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves,       vanity to what we would have others think of us.”        “If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came       with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would       keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.”        “Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said       Mrs. Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away       your bottle directly.”        The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare       that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.     Chapter 6        The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The       visit was returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing       manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and       though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger       sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted       with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this       attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth       still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody,       hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though       their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in       all probability from the influence of their brother’s admiration.       It was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire       her; and to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to       the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the       first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she       considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered       by the world in general, since Jane united with great strength       of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of       manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the       impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.        “It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to       impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a       disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her       affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose       the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor       consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so       much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it       is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely—a       slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us       who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.       In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_ affection       than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may       never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”        “But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If       _I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton       indeed not to discover it too.”        “Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you       do.”        “But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to       conceal it, he must find it out.”        “Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley       and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours       together; and as they always see each other in large mixed       parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in       conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every       half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is       secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as       much as she chooses.”        “Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is       in question but the desire of being well married; and if I were       determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I       should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not       acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the       degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She has known       him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton;       she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined       in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make       her understand his character.”        “Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she       might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but       you must remember that four evenings have been also spent       together—and four evenings may do a great deal.”        “Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that       they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to       any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has       been unfolded.”        “Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart;       and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had       as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his       character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a       matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so       well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does       not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to       grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of       vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the       defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”        “You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it       is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”        Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister,       Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming       an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy       had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at       her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he       looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it       clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good       feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered       uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark       eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying.       Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure       of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her       figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting       that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was       caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly       unaware;—to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable       nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance       with.        He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards       conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with       others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William       Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.        “What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening       to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”        “That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”        “But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I       see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do       not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid       of him.”        On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming       to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend       to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking       Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said,        “Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly       well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a       ball at Meryton?”        “With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady       energetic.”        “You are severe on us.”        “It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am       going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”        “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always       wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my       vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable;       but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who       must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On       Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well; if it       must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, “There       is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar       with—‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge,’—and I shall keep       mine to swell my song.”        Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a       song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of       several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at       the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of       being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge       and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.        Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given       her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and       conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of       excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected,       had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing       half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad       to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the       request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases,       and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end       of the room.        Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of       passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and       was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir       William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.        “What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!       There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of       the first refinements of polished societies.”        “Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue       amongst the less polished societies of the world.—Every savage       can dance.”        Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he       continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I       doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr.       Darcy.”        “You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”        “Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the       sight. Do you often dance at St. James’s?”        “Never, sir.”        “Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”        “It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid       it.”        “You have a house in town, I conclude?”        Mr. Darcy bowed.        “I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself—for I am       fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that       the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.”        He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not       disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving       towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very       gallant thing, and called out to her,        “My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must       allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable       partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much       beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given       it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not       unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said       with some discomposure to Sir William,        “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I       entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg       for a partner.”        Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the       honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor       did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at       persuasion.        “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to       deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman       dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am       sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”        “Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.        “He is, indeed—but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss       Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object       to such a partner?”        Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not       injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with       some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,        “I can guess the subject of your reverie.”        “I should imagine not.”        “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many       evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of       your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet       the noise; the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all       these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”        “Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more       agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great       pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman       can bestow.”        Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired       he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such       reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,        “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”        “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all       astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray       when am I to wish you joy?”        “That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A       lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to       love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be       wishing me joy.”        “Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as       absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law,       indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with       you.”        He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to       entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced       her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.     Chapter 7        Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of       two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was       entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and       their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life,       could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been       an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.        She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk       to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother       settled in London in a respectable line of trade.        The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most       convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually       tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to       their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two       youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly       frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than       their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to       Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish       conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the       country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some       from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both       with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia       regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter,       and Meryton was the headquarters.        Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most       interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their       knowledge of the officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings       were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the       officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this       opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They       could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large       fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was       worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an       ensign.        After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject,       Mr. Bennet coolly observed,        “From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must       be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it       some time, but I am now convinced.”        Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with       perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of       Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the       day, as he was going the next morning to London.        “I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be       so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think       slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own,       however.”        “If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of       it.”        “Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”        “This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not       agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every       particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two       youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”        “My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the       sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I       dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do.       I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and,       indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel,       with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I       shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked       very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his       regimentals.”        “Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and       Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did       when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in       Clarke’s library.”        Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman       with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the       servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with       pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter       read,        “Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say?       Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”        “It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.        “MY DEAR FRIEND,—       “If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa       and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest       of our lives, for a whole day’s _tête-à-tête_ between two women       can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the       receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with       the officers.—Yours ever,        “CAROLINE BINGLEY”        “With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell       us of _that_.”        “Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”        “Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.        “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems       likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”        “That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure       that they would not offer to send her home.”        “Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to       Meryton; and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”        “I had much rather go in the coach.”        “But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure.       They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?”        “They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”        “But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s       purpose will be answered.”        She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the       horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on       horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many       cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane       had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were       uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued       the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not       come back.        “This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet, more       than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own.       Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the       felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a       servant from Netherfield brought the following note for       Elizabeth:        “MY DEAREST LIZZY,—       “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to       be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends       will not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also       on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should       hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and       headache, there is not much the matter with me.—Yours, &c.”        “Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the       note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of       illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it       was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”        “Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little       trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she       stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I       could have the carriage.”        Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her,       though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no       horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her       resolution.        “How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such       a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when       you get there.”        “I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.”        “Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the       horses?”        “No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is       nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back       by dinner.”        “I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but       every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my       opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is       required.”        “We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and       Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young       ladies set off together.        “If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we       may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”        In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings       of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk       alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over       stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and       finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary       ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of       exercise.        She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were       assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of       surprise. That she should have walked three miles so early in the       day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible       to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that       they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very       politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was       something better than politeness; there was good humour and       kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at       all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy       which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the       occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was       thinking only of his breakfast.        Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered.       Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and       not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken       to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the       fear of giving alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note       how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her       entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and       when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little       beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness       she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.        When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and       Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much       affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary       came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be       supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must       endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed,       and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily,       for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely.       Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were the other       ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact       nothing to do elsewhere.        When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and       very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage,       and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane       testified such concern in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was       obliged to convert the offer of the chaise to an invitation to       remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully       consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint       the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.     Chapter 8        At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past       six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries       which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of       distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she       could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means       better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four       times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a       bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves;       and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference       towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored Elizabeth       to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.        Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she       could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was       evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they       prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed       she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from       any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister       scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he       was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at       cards; who, when he found her prefer a plain dish to a ragout,       had nothing to say to her.        When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss       Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her       manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride       and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty.       Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added,        “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an       excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this       morning. She really looked almost wild.”        “She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance.       Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering       about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so       untidy, so blowsy!”        “Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches       deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been       let down to hide it not doing its office.”        “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this       was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked       remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her       dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”        “_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley;       “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your       sister_ make such an exhibition.”        “Certainly not.”        “To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever       it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what       could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort       of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to       decorum.”        “It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,”       said Bingley.        “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half       whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration       of her fine eyes.”        “Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.”       A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.        “I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a       very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well       settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low       connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”        “I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in       Meryton.”        “Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”        “That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed       heartily.        “If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried       Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.”        “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men       of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.        To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it       their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at       the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.        With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room       on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to       coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit       her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of       seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than       pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the       drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was       immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be       playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse,       said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay       below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.        “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather       singular.”        “Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a       great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”        “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried       Elizabeth; “I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in       many things.”        “In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said       Bingley; “and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her       quite well.”        Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a       table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to       fetch her others; all that his library afforded.        “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own       credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I       have more than I ever looked into.”        Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with       those in the room.        “I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have       left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library       you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”        “It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many       generations.”        “And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always       buying books.”        “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days       as these.”        “Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the       beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_       house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”        “I wish it may.”        “But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that       neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is       not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”        “With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will       sell it.”        “I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”        “Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get       Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”        Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her       very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly       aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself       between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game.        “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley;       “will she be as tall as I am?”        “I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s       height, or rather taller.”        “How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who       delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners!—and so       extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the       pianoforte is exquisite.”        “It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have       patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”        “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you       mean?”        “Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens,       and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this,       and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first       time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”        “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy,       “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who       deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a       screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your       estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more       than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that       are really accomplished.”        “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.        “Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in       your idea of an accomplished woman.”        “Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.”        “Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be       really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is       usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of       music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to       deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a       certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of       her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but       half deserved.”        “All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she       must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of       her mind by extensive reading.”        “I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished       women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”        “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility       of all this?”        “_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and       taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united.”        Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice       of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew       many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called       them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to       what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an       end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.        “Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed       on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend       themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with       many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a       paltry device, a very mean art.”        “Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly       addressed, “there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies       sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears       affinity to cunning is despicable.”        Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to       continue the subject.        Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was       worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s       being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no       country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to       town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not       hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their       brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be       sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly       better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared       that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,       however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better       relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions       that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her       sister.     Chapter 9        Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and       in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable       answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr.       Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two       elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this       amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to       Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own       judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched,       and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet,       accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon       after the family breakfast.        Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have       been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her       illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering       immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove       her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her       daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the       apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all       advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss       Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the mother and three       daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley       met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet       worse than she expected.        “Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too       ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her.       We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”        “Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister,       I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”        “You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold       civility, “that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention       while she remains with us.”        Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.        “I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do       not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed,       and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the       world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without       exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell       my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room       here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk.       I do not know a place in the country that is equal to       Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I       hope, though you have but a short lease.”        “Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if       I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in       five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite       fixed here.”        “That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said       Elizabeth.        “You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards       her.        “Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly.”        “I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily       seen through I am afraid is pitiful.”        “That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate       character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”        “Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not       run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”        “I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you       were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”        “Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have       at least that advantage.”        “The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few       subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in       a very confined and unvarying society.”        “But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new       to be observed in them for ever.”        “Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of       mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite       as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town.”        Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a       moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had       gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.        “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the       country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The       country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?”        “When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave       it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have       each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”        “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that       gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was       nothing at all.”        “Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for       her mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that       there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the       country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”        “Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not       meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there       are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with       four-and-twenty families.”        Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep       his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her       eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth,       for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother’s       thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn       since _her_ coming away.        “Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man       Sir William is, Mr. Bingley—is not he? so much the man of       fashion! So genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to       everybody. _That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons       who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths,       quite mistake the matter.”        “Did Charlotte dine with you?”        “No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the       mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants       that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up       differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the       Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity       they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_       plain—but then she is our particular friend.”        “She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley.        “Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas       herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not       like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not       often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do       not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was       a gentleman at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her,       that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before       we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her       too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty       they were.”        “And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There       has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder       who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away       love!”        “I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said       Darcy.        “Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what       is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of       inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it       entirely away.”        Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made       Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself       again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say;       and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks       to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for       troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil       in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also,       and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed       without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and       soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the       youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had       been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the       result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with       having promised on his first coming into the country to give a       ball at Netherfield.        Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine       complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her       mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early       age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural       self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom       her uncle’s good dinners and her own easy manners recommended       her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore,       to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly       reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most       shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to       this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear.        “I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and       when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the       very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while       she is ill.”        Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes—it would be much       better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely       Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given       _your_ ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one       also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he       does not.”        Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth       returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’       behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the       latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in       their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms       on _fine eyes_.     Chapter 10        The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and       Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the       invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the       evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The       loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and       Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his       letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to       his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs.       Hurst was observing their game.        Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in       attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The       perpetual commendations of the lady either on his handwriting,       or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter,       with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received,       formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her       opinion of each.        “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”        He made no answer.        “You write uncommonly fast.”        “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”        “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course       of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think       them!”        “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to       yours.”        “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”        “I have already told her so once, by your desire.”        “I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I       mend pens remarkably well.”        “Thank you—but I always mend my own.”        “How can you contrive to write so even?”        He was silent.        “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on       the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with       her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it       infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”        “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write       again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”        “Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do       you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”        “They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not       for me to determine.”        “It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter       with ease, cannot write ill.”        “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her       brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too       much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”        “My style of writing is very different from yours.”        “Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless       way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the       rest.”        “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by       which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my       correspondents.”        “Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm       reproof.”        “Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of       humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes       an indirect boast.”        “And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of       modesty?”        “The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in       writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity       of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not       estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of       doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the       possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of       the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if       you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in       five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of       compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in       a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone,       and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?”        “Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all       the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon       my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I       believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume       the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before       the ladies.”        “I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that       you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite       as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you       were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had       better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would       probably not go—and, at another word, might stay a month.”        “You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr.       Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown       him off now much more than he did himself.”        “I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting       what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my       temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that       gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think       the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat       denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”        “Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original       intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”        “Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must       speak for himself.”        “You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call       mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case,       however, to stand according to your representation, you must       remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire       his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely       desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of       its propriety.”        “To yield readily—easily—to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no       merit with you.”        “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the       understanding of either.”        “You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence       of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would       often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for       arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking       of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as       well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we       discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general       and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them       is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great       moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with       the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”        “Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to       arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which       is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of       intimacy subsisting between the parties?”        “By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars,       not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will       have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be       aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall       fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so       much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than       Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his       own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has       nothing to do.”        Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that       he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss       Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an       expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.        “I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an       argument, and want to silence this.”        “Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and       Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall       be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”        “What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and       Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.”        Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.        When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and       Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved       with alacrity to the pianoforte, and after a polite request       that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and       more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.        Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus       employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over       some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr.       Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose       that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and       yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still       more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last, that she       drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and       reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other       person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him       too little to care for his approbation.        After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm       by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing       near Elizabeth, said to her—        “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such       an opportunity of dancing a reel?”        She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with       some surprise at her silence.        “Oh!” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately       determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say       ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste;       but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and       cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have,       therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to       dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”        “Indeed I do not dare.”        Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at       his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness       in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody;       and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by       her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of       her connections, he should be in some danger.        Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her       great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received       some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.        She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by       talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in       such an alliance.        “I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the       shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few       hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage       of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the       younger girls of running after the officers. And, if I may mention so       delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something,       bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady       possesses.”        “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”        “Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be       placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your       great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know,       only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you       must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to       those beautiful eyes?”        “It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but       their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine,       might be copied.”        At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and       Elizabeth herself.        “I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in       some confusion, lest they had been overheard.        “You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away       without telling us that you were coming out.”        Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth       to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt       their rudeness, and immediately said,—        “This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go       into the avenue.”        But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with       them, laughingly answered,        “No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and       appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by       admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”        She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the       hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so       much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of       hours that evening.     Chapter 11        When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her       sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into       the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with       many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them       so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the       gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were       considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy,       relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance       with spirit.        But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first       object; Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy,       and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many       steps. He addressed himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite       congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he       was “very glad;” but diffuseness and warmth remained for       Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first       half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer       from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the       other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from the       door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone       else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with       great delight.        When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the       card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence       that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found       even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one       intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the       subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to       do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep.       Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst,       principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings,       joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss       Bennet.        Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching       Mr. Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own;       and she was perpetually either making some enquiry, or looking at       his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he       merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite       exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which       she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she       gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an       evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment       like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a       book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I       have not an excellent library.”        No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her       book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some       amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss       Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said:        “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a       dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on       it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much       mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be       rather a punishment than a pleasure.”        “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he       chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a       settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup       enough, I shall send round my cards.”        “I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they       were carried on in a different manner; but there is something       insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It       would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of       dancing were made the order of the day.”        “Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would       not be near so much like a ball.”        Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and       walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked       well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly       studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one       effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said:        “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and       take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing       after sitting so long in one attitude.”        Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss       Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr.       Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention       in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously       closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but       he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives       for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with       either of which motives his joining them would interfere. “What       could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his       meaning?”—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand       him?        “Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be       severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to       ask nothing about it.”        Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy       in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation       of his two motives.        “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he,       as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this       method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s       confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you       are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage       in walking; if the first, I would be completely in your way, and       if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the       fire.”        “Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so       abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”        “Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said       Elizabeth. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease       him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to       be done.”        “But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy       has not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and       presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to       laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by       attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug       himself.”        “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an       uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it       would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I       dearly love a laugh.”        “Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.       The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their       actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object       in life is a joke.”        “Certainly,” replied Elizabeth—“there are such people, but I hope       I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and       good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_       divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these,       I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”        “Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the       study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a       strong understanding to ridicule.”        “Such as vanity and pride.”        “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a       real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good       regulation.”        Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.        “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss       Bingley; “and pray what is the result?”        “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He       owns it himself without disguise.”        “No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults       enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I       dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little       yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I       cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought,       nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed       about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be       called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”        “_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable       resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your       fault well. I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”        “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some       particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best       education can overcome.”        “And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”        “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to       misunderstand them.”        “Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a       conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not       mind my waking Mr. Hurst?”        Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was       opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not       sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too       much attention.     Chapter 12        In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth       wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage       might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet,       who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till       the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week,       could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her       answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to       Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.       Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the       carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that       if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she       could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however,       Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it       would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered       as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow       Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled       that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning       should be mentioned, and the request made.        The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough       was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day       to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred.       Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for       her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her       affection for the other.        The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to       go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it       would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but       Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.        To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at       Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and       Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to       himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no       sign of admiration should _now_ escape him, nothing that could       elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible       that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the       last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it.       Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through       the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by       themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to       his book, and would not even look at her.        On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to       almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth       increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for       Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the       pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn       or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook       hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in       the liveliest of spirits.        They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs.       Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to       give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold       again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions       of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their       importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when       they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and       almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.        They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and       human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new       observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and       Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been       done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding       Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their       uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been       hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.     Chapter 13        “I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at       breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner       to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family       party.”        “Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am       sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I hope       _my_ dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often       sees such at home.”        “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”        Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is       Mr. Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad       to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a       bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I       must speak to Hill this moment.”        “It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom       I never saw in the whole course of my life.”        This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of       being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at       once.        After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus       explained:        “About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight       ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and       requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins,       who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon       as he pleases.”        “Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that       mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is       the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be       entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had       been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other       about it.”        Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an       entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a       subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and       she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an       estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man       whom nobody cared anything about.        “It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and       nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting       Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps       be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”        “No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very       impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical.       I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling       with you, as his father did before him?”        “Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on       that head, as you will hear.”        “Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15_th October_.        “Dear Sir,—       “The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late       honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have       had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal       the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts,       fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to       be on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him       to be at variance.—‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’—My mind, however, is now       made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter,       I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage       of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir       Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to       the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest       endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her       ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies       which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman,       moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing       of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on       these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures are       highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in       the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your       side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I       cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring       your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as       well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible       amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to       receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of       waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four       o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the       Saturday se’ennight following, which I can do without any       inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my       occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other       clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear       sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your       well-wisher and friend,        “WILLIAM COLLINS”        “At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making       gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He       seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my       word, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance,       especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him       come to us again.”        “There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however,       and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the       person to discourage him.”        “Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can       mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is       certainly to his credit.”        Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for       Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying,       and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.        “He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him       out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—And what can       he mean by apologising for being next in the entail?—We cannot       suppose he would help it if he could.—Could he be a sensible man,       sir?”        “No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him       quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and       self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am       impatient to see him.”        “In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem       defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly       new, yet I think it is well expressed.”        To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in       any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their       cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks       since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any       other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done       away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with       a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters.        Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great       politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little;       but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed       neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent       himself. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of       five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners       were very formal. He had not been long seated before he       complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters;       said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance       fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not       doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage.       This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers;       but Mrs. Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most       readily.        “You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it       may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are       settled so oddly.”        “You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”        “Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls,       you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for       such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no       knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.”        “I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,       and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of       appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young       ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not       say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—”        He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled       on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s       admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture,       were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything       would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying       supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The       dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know       to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cooking was       owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him       with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good       cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He       begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she       declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to       apologise for about a quarter of an hour.     Chapter 14        During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the       servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some       conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in       which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very       fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention       to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very       remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins       was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than       usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he       protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour       in a person of rank—such affability and condescension, as he had       himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously       pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had already       had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him       twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday       before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady       Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had       never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken       to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the       smallest objection to his joining in the society of the       neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a       week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to       advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with       discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble       parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations       he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some       herself—some shelves in the closet up stairs.”        “That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet,       “and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that       great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near       you, sir?”        “The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by       a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.”        “I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”        “She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very       extensive property.”        “Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off       than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she       handsome?”        “She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself       says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far       superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in       her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth.       She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has       prevented her from making that progress in many accomplishments       which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by       the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides       with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to       drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”        “Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the       ladies at court.”        “Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in       town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has       deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her       ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I       am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate       compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more       than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter       seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank,       instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These       are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it       is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound       to pay.”        “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for       you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May       I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse       of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”        “They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though       I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such       little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary       occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as       possible.”        Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as       absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest       enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute       composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at       Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.        By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet       was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when       tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr.       Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on       beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a       circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon,       protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and       Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some       deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened       the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity,       read three pages, she interrupted him with:        “Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away       Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt       told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow       to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from       town.”        Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but       Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:        “I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by       books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their       benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be       nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no       longer importune my young cousin.”        Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist       at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that       he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling       amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly       for Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it should not occur       again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after       assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and       should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself       at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.     Chapter 15        Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature       had been but little assisted by education or society; the       greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of       an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one       of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms,       without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in       which his father had brought him up had given him originally       great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted       by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the       consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A       fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh       when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he       felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his       patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his       authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him       altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance       and humility.        Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended       to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn       family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the       daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were       represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of       atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it       an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and       excessively generous and disinterested on his own part.        His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face       confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of       what was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was       his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an       alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs.       Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his       parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his       hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn,       produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general       encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.       “As to her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to       say—she could not positively answer—but she did not _know_ of any       prepossession; her _eldest_ daughter, she must just mention—she       felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon       engaged.”        Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—and it was       soon done—done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire.       Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded       her of course.        Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might       soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not       bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces.        Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every       sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to       attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious       to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither       Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast; and there he would       continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the       collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with little       cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings       discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been       always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as       he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other       room of the house, he was used to be free from them there; his       civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to       join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact       much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely       pleased to close his large book, and go.        In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his       cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The       attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by       _him_. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in       quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet       indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall       them.        But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man,       whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike       appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the       way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return       from London Lydia came to enquire, and he bowed as they passed.       All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he       could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find       out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting       something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained       the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached       the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated       permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned       with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had       accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it       should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him       completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he       had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good       figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed       up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness       at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole       party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,       when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley       were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of       the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and       began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman,       and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on       his way to Longbourn on purpose to enquire after her. Mr. Darcy       corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to       fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by       the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the       countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all       astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,       one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few       moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just       deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was       impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.        In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have       noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.        Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the       door of Mr. Phillip’s house, and then made their bows, in spite       of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in, and       even in spite of Mrs. Phillips’s throwing up the parlour window       and loudly seconding the invitation.        Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two       eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and       she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return       home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she       should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see       Mr. Jones’s shop-boy in the street, who had told her that they       were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because the       Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed       towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received       him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much       more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous       acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering       himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the       young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was       quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her       contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by       exclamations and enquiries about the other; of whom, however, she       could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny       had brought him from London, and that he was to have a       lieutenant’s commission in the ——shire. She had been watching him       the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and       had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have       continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now       except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the       stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of       them were to dine with the Phillipses the next day, and their       aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give       him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come       in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips protested       that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery       tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect       of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual       good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the       room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were       perfectly needless.        As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen       pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have       defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong,       she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.        Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by       admiring Mrs. Phillips’s manners and politeness. He protested       that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a       more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the       utmost civility, but even pointedly included him in her       invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her       before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his       connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much       attention in the whole course of his life.     Chapter 16        As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with       their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and       Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most       steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at       a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of       hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had       accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in the house.        When this information was given, and they had all taken their       seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire,       and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the       apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself       in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison       that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs.       Phillips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its       proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one       of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the       chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all       the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a       comparison with the housekeeper’s room.        In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her       mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble       abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily       employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs.       Phillips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his       consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving       to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To       the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had       nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their       own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the       interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last,       however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked       into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing       him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree       of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in       general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of       them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond       them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were       superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing       port wine, who followed them into the room.        Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female       eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he       finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he       immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its       being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest,       most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill       of the speaker.        With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and       the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to       the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at       intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her       watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.       When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of       obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.        “I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be       glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—” Mrs.       Phillips was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait for       his reason.        Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he       received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first       there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she       was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond       of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the       game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes to       have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common       demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk       to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what       she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the       history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even       mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly       relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He enquired how       far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her       answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been       staying there.        “About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the       subject drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in       Derbyshire, I understand.”        “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A       clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a       person more capable of giving you certain information on that       head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a       particular manner from my infancy.”        Elizabeth could not but look surprised.        “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion,       after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our       meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”        “As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I       have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him       very disagreeable.”        “I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his       being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I       have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is       impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion       of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not       express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your       own family.”        “Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house       in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked       in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will       not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”        “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short       interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated       beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often       happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or       frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as       he chooses to be seen.”        “I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an       ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.        “I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,       “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”        “I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away       when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the       ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”        “Oh! no—it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If       _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on       friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I       have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim       before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most       painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet,       the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed,       and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company       with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a       thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been       scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and       everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and       disgracing the memory of his father.”        Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and       listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented       further enquiry.        Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the       neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all       that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but       very intelligible gallantry.        “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he       added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I       knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend       Denny tempted me further by his account of their present       quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent       acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is       necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits       will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A       military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances       have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my       profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this       time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it       pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”        “Indeed!”        “Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of       the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively       attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to       provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the       living fell, it was given elsewhere.”        “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How       could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal       redress?”        “There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest       as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have       doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to       treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert       that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,       imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the       living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to       hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less       certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done       anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper,       and I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too       freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are       very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”        “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”        “Some time or other he _will_ be—but it shall not be by _me_.       Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.”        Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him       handsomer than ever as he expressed them.        “But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive?       What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”        “A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot       but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy       liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his       father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very       early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of       competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was       often given me.”        “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never       liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed       him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not       suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such       injustice, such inhumanity as this.”        After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_       remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the       implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving       temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”        “I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_       can hardly be just to him.”        Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed,       “To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite       of his father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like       _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being       amiable”—but she contented herself with, “and one, too, who had       probably been his companion from childhood, connected together,       as I think you said, in the closest manner!”        “We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the       greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the       same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same       parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which       your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but he       gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted       all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most       highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential       friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the       greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and       when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a       voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he       felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his       affection to myself.”        “How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that       the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If       from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to       be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”        “It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions       may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend.       It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other       feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour       to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”        “Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”        “Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give       his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants,       and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride—for he is       very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear       to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities,       or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful       motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which, with _some_       brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian       of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the       most attentive and best of brothers.”        “What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”        He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me       pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her       brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and       pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and       hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a       handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand,       highly accomplished. Since her father’s death, her home has been       London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her       education.”        After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth       could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:        “I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr.       Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe,       truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they       suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?”        “Not at all.”        “He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know       what Mr. Darcy is.”        “Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does       not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he       thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals       in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the       less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich       he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and       perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.”        The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered       round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between       his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual enquiries as to       his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great;       he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express       her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity       that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the       money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make       herself uneasy.        “I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down       to a card-table, they must take their chances of these things,       and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five       shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not       say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am       removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”        Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr.       Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice       whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the       family of de Bourgh.        “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given       him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced       to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”        “You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne       Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present       Mr. Darcy.”        “No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s       connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before       yesterday.”        “Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune,       and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two       estates.”        This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor       Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and       useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself,       if he were already self-destined for another.        “Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine       and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related       of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that       in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant,       conceited woman.”        “I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I       have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I       never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and       insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and       clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities       from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner,       and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chooses that       everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the       first class.”        Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of       it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction       till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies       their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no       conversation in the noise of Mrs. Phillips’s supper party, but       his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was       said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went       away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of       Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but       there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went,       for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked       incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the       fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of       Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least       regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper,       and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to       say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at       Longbourn House.     Chapter 17        Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between       Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and       concern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so       unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard; and yet, it was not in her       nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable       appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his having endured such       unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and       nothing remained therefore to be done, but to think well of them       both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account       of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained.        “They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some       way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people       have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short,       impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which       may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”        “Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to       say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been       concerned in the business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be       obliged to think ill of somebody.”        “Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my       opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful       light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite       in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide       for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had       any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most       intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.”        “I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on,       than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as       he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without       ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides,       there was truth in his looks.”        “It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what       to think.”        “I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”        But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—that Mr.       Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer       when the affair became public.        The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this       conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom       they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give       their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at       Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two       ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it       an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been       doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the       family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much       as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to       the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats       with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and       hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities.        The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to       every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as       given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly       flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself,       instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy       evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of       their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a       great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of       everything in Mr. Darcy’s look and behaviour. The happiness       anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single       event, or any particular person, for though they each, like       Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he       was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a       ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her       family that she had no disinclination for it.        “While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is       enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening       engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself       one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement       as desirable for everybody.”        Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on this occasion, that though       she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could       not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s       invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to       join in the evening’s amusement; and she was rather surprised to       find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and       was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop,       or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.        “I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a       ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to       respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far       from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be       honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of       the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours,       Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference       which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause,       and not to any disrespect for her.”        Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully       proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and       to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had never been worse       timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness       and her own were perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr.       Collins’s proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could.       She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea       it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that       _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being       mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a       quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible       visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed       his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent       attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more       astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms,       it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the       probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to _her_.       Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well       aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any       reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did,       it was useless to quarrel about him.        If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk       of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable       state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the       day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented       their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news       could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were       got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her       patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of       her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance       on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and       Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.     Chapter 18        Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and       looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats       there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred       to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any       of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed       her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in       the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained       unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might       be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the       dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy’s       pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though       this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence       was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly       applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to       town on business the day before, and was not yet returned;       adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business       would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to       avoid a certain gentleman here.”        This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was       caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not       less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise       had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former       was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could       hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite enquiries       which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance,       forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was       resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned       away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly       surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality       provoked her.        But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every       prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not       dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to       Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon       able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her       cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first       two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were       dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,       apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without       being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a       disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment       of her release from him was ecstasy.        She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of       talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked.       When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and       was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly       addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his       application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she       accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left       to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to       console her:        “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”        “Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all!       To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not       wish me such an evil.”        When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to       claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a       whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham       to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his       consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the       set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being       allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her       neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They       stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to       imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances,       and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying       that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige       him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He       replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she       addressed him a second time with:—“It is _your_ turn to say       something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the dance, and _you_       ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the       number of couples.”        He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say       should be said.        “Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by       I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public       ones. But _now_ we may be silent.”        “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”        “Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd       to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the       advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as       that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”        “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do       you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”        “Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great       similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,       taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say       something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to       posterity with all the _éclat_ of a proverb.”        “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am       sure,” said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend       to say. _You_ think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”        “I must not decide on my own performance.”        He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone       down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not       very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and,       unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there       the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”        The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread       his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though       blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length       Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is       blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his _making_       friends—whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is       less certain.”        “He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,” replied       Elizabeth with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to       suffer from all his life.”        Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the       subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to       them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the       room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped with a bow of       superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his       partner.        “I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very       superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong       to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair       partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this       pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable       event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall       take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to       Mr. Darcy:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank       me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young       lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”        The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but       Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him       forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious       expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together.       Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner,       and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we       were talking of.”        “I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not       have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for       themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without       success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”        “What think you of books?” said he, smiling.        “Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the       same feelings.”        “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at       least be no want of subject. We may compare our different       opinions.”        “No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full       of something else.”        “The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said       he, with a look of doubt.        “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for       her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon       afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember       hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave,       that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very       cautious, I suppose, as to its _being created?_”        “I am,” said he, with a firm voice.        “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”        “I hope not.”        “It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their       opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”        “May I ask to what these questions tend?”        “Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she,       endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it       out.”        “And what is your success?”        She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such       different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”        “I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may       vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet,       that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment,       as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no       credit on either.”        “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another       opportunity.”        “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly       replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and       parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to       an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably       powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and       directed all his anger against another.        They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her,       and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:        “So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George       Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking       me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite       forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was       the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward. Let me       recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit       confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him       ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always       been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated       Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the       particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the       least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham       mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not       well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he       was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the       way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing,       indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,       Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but       really, considering his descent, one could not expect much       better.”        “His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the       same,” said Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him       of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward,       and of _that_, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”        “I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a       sneer. “Excuse my interference—it was kindly meant.”        “Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much       mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as       this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the       malice of Mr. Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had       undertaken to make enquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane       met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such       happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was       satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth       instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for       Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else,       gave way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for       happiness.        “I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling       than her sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But       perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any       third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”        “No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing       satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of       his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which       have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the       good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and is       perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less       attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to       say by his account as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no       means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very       imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.”        “Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”        “No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”        “This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am       satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”        “He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has       heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it       was left to him _conditionally_ only.”        “I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth       warmly; “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances       only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a very able one, I       dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the       story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall       venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.”        She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each,       and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth       listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which       Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and said all in her       power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by       Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose       enquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had       scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told       her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as       to make a most important discovery.        “I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there       is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to       overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who       does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de       Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these       sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with,       perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I       am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay       my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will       excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the       connection must plead my apology.”        “You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”        “Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it       earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s _nephew_. It will       be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well       yesterday se’nnight.”        Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring       him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without       introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment       to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should       be any notice on either side; and that if it were, it must belong       to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the       acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air       of following his own inclination, and, when she ceased speaking,       replied thus:        “My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world       in your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of       your understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a       wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst       the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me       leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in       point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided       that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time       maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of       my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I       look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by       your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant       guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted       by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a       young lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to       attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly       watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very       evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and       though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it       all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,”       “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see       him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with       unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him       time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr.       Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and       Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length       of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a       slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to       Elizabeth.        “I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied       with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the       attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid       me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady       Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a       favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon       the whole, I am much pleased with him.”        As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she       turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr.       Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her       observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as       Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the       felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she       felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to       like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw       were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near       her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper,       therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which       placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to       find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas)       freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane       would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating       subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while       enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a       charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from       them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was       such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane,       and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as       she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her       younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them       in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at       her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to       the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go       into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this       circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it       is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to       find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She       concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be       equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing       there was no chance of it.        In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her       mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a       less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she       could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy,       who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being       nonsensical.        “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I       am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged       to say nothing _he_ may not like to hear.”        “For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be       for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to       his friend by so doing!”        Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her       mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone.       Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She       could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though       every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was       not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his       attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face       changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and       steady gravity.        At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady       Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights       which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts       of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not       long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over,       singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing       Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the       company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she       endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but in vain;       Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting       was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes       were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched       her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which       was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving,       amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she       might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of       half a minute began another. Mary’s powers were by no means       fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner       affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see       how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley.       She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of       derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,       imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his       interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the       hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,       “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long       enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”        Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted;       and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech,       was afraid her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were       now applied to.        “If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to       sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the       company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent       diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a       clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be       justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there       are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a       parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an       agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not       offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the       time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and       the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be       excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not       think it of light importance that he should have attentive and       conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those       to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty;       nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of       testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the       family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech,       which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.       Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr.       Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins       for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to       Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young       man.        To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement       to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it       would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more       spirit or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley       and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his       notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much       distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his       two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an       opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough, and she       could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman,       or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.        The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was       teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her       side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him       again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did       she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to       introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that       as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief       object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and       that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her       the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She       owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often       joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s       conversation to herself.        She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s further       notice; though often standing within a very short distance of       her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She       felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr.       Wickham, and rejoiced in it.        The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart,       and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their       carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone,       which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by       some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened       their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently       impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every       attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a       languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by       the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr.       Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment,       and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their       behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet,       in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane       were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and       talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a       silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was       too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation       of “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.        When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most       pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at       Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to       assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner       with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal       invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily       engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her,       after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the       next day for a short time.        Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under       the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary       preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes,       she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in       the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter       married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and       with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the       least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the       match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each was       eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.     Chapter 19        The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made       his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of       time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following       Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it       distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a       very orderly manner, with all the observances, which he supposed       a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet,       Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after       breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:        “May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter       Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience       with her in the course of this morning?”        Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise,       Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am       sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no       objection. Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.” And, gathering her       work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:        “Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must       excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not       hear. I am going away myself.”        “No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.”       And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed       looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your       staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”        Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction—and a moment’s       consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to       get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down       again and tried to conceal, by incessant employment the feelings       which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet       and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins       began.        “Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far       from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other       perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had       there _not_ been this little unwillingness; but allow me to       assure you, that I have your respected mother’s permission for       this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse,       however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my       attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as       I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my       future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this       subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons       for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with       the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”        The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run       away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that       she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to       stop him further, and he continued:        “My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right       thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to       set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am       convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and       thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it       is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble       lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she       condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this       subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left       Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was       arranging Miss de Bourgh’s footstool, that she said, ‘Mr.       Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose       properly, choose a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_,       let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high,       but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice.       Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and       I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair       cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady       Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my       power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can       describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable       to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect       which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general       intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my       views were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own       neighbourhood, where I can assure you there are many amiable       young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit       this estate after the death of your honoured father (who,       however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself       without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that       the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the       melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already       said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my       fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your       esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the       most animated language of the violence of my affection. To       fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of       that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could       not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four       per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother’s       decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,       therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure       yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when       we are married.”        It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.        “You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made       no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my       thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible       of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to       do otherwise than to decline them.”        “I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave       of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the       addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he       first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is       repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no       means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to       lead you to the altar ere long.”        “Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is a rather       extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am       not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are)       who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of       being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.       You could not make _me_ happy, and I am convinced that I am the       last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your       friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find       me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.”        “Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr.       Collins very gravely—“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship       would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I       have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very       highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable       qualification.”        “Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You       must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment       of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and       by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being       otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the       delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take       possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any       self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as       finally settled.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have       quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:        “When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the       subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than       you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of       cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established       custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application, and       perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as       would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female       character.”        “Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “you       puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to       you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my       refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”        “You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that       your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My       reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to       me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the       establishment I can offer would be any other than highly       desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family       of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances       highly in my favour; and you should take it into further       consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is       by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be       made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all       likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable       qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not       serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it       to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the       usual practice of elegant females.”        “I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to       that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable       man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed       sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done       me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely       impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak       plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending       to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth       from her heart.”        “You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward       gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the       express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals       will not fail of being acceptable.”        To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would       make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew;       determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals       as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose       negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and       whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the       affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.     Chapter 20        Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his       successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the       vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw       Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the       staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated       both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their       nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these       felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate       the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he       trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal       which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow       from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her       character.        This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have       been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to       encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared       not believe it, and could not help saying so.        “But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall       be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She       is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own       interest but I will _make_ her know it.”        “Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but       if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she       would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my       situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage       state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit,       perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me,       because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not       contribute much to my felicity.”        “Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed.       “Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything       else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go       directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with       her, I am sure.”        She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to       her husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr.       Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You       must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will       not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his       mind and not have _her_.”        Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and       fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the       least altered by her communication.        “I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she       had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”        “Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr.       Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have       Lizzy.”        “And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless       business.”        “Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon       her marrying him.”        “Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”        Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the       library.        “Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have       sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr.       Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth       replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you       have refused?”        “I have, sir.”        “Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon       your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”        “Yes, or I will never see her again.”        “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day       you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will       never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will       never see you again if you _do_.”        Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a       beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her       husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively       disappointed.        “What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised       me to _insist_ upon her marrying him.”        “My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to       request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my       understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room.       I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.”        Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband,       did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again       and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to       secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible       mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with       real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to       her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination       never did.        Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had       passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what       motives his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was       hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite       imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother’s       reproach prevented his feeling any regret.        While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to       spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia,       who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are       come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened       this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she       will not have him.”        Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by       Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they       entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she       likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her       compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to       comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss       Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my       side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels       for my poor nerves.”        Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and       Elizabeth.        “Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as       unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were       at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss       Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer       of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and       I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father       is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep you—and so I warn you. I       have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library,       you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will       find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to       undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in       talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous       complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can       tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not       complain are never pitied.”        Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that       any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase       the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption       from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who       entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on       perceiving whom, she said to the girls, “Now, I do insist upon       it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr.       Collins have a little conversation together.”        Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty       followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she       could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr.       Collins, whose enquiries after herself and all her family were       very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself       with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a       doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected conversation: “Oh!       Mr. Collins!”        “My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this       point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice       that marked his displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your       daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all;       the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I       have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps       not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had       my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often       observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the       blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our       estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any       disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my       pretensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid       yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to       interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be       objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your       daughter’s lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to       error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My       object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with       due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my       _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to       apologise.”     Chapter 21        The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end,       and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings       necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish       allusions of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_       feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or       dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner       and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the       assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself       were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose       civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all,       and especially to her friend.        The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-humour or       ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry       pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his       visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it.       He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant       to stay.        After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to enquire if Mr.       Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the       Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and       attended them to their aunt’s where his regret and vexation, and       the concern of everybody, was well talked over. To Elizabeth,       however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his       absence _had_ been self-imposed.        “I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not       meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with       him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear,       and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”        She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a       full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they       civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer       walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he       particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double       advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and       it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her       father and mother.        Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet;       it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of       elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s       fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance       change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some       particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting       the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the       general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the       subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no       sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from       Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained       their own room, Jane, taking out the letter, said:        “This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me       a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time,       and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming       back again. You shall hear what she says.”        She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the       information of their having just resolved to follow their brother       to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor       Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words:       “I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in       Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we       will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that       delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may       lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most       unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these       highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the       insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their       removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it       was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would       prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as to the loss of their       society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to regard it, in       the enjoyment of his.        “It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should       not be able to see your friends before they leave the country.       But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which       Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive earlier than she is aware,       and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends       will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr.       Bingley will not be detained in London by them.”        “Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into       Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”        “When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business       which took him to London might be concluded in three or four       days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time       convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry       to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither,       that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a       comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already there for       the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend,       had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I       despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may       abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and       that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling       the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.”        “It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more       this winter.”        “It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he       _should_.”        “Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own       master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage       which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.”        “Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the       truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really       do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance,       and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and       myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from       the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I       do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on       this subject; but I will not leave the country without confiding       them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My       brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent       opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her       relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a       sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call       Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all       these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to       prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of       an event which will secure the happiness of so many?”        “What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane       as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not       expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to       be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s       indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings       for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can       there be any other opinion on the subject?”        “Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear       it?”        “Most willingly.”        “You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her       brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy.       She follows him to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries       to persuade you that he does not care about you.”        Jane shook her head.        “Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen       you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure,       cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as       much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her       wedding clothes. But the case is this: We are not rich enough or       grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss       Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been       _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a       second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare       say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,       my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss       Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is       in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he       took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to       persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he is very       much in love with her friend.”        “If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your       representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know       the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully       deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that       she is deceiving herself.”        “That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea,       since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be       deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and       must fret no longer.”        “But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in       accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to       marry elsewhere?”        “You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon       mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his       two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his       wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.”        “How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know       that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their       disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”        “I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot       consider your situation with much compassion.”        “But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be       required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”        The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the       utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of       Caroline’s interested wishes, and she could not for a moment       suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken,       could influence a young man so totally independent of everyone.        She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she       felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its       happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding, and she was       gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection       sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to       Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.        They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of       the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s       conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great       deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that       the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting       so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some       length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would be soon       down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of       all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been       invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two       full courses.     Chapter 22        The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again       during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen       to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her.       “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged       to you than I can express.” Charlotte assured her friend of her       satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for       the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but       Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any       conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her       from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them       towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances       were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would       have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave       Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the       fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape       out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness,       and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was       anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction       that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture       his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till       its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost       secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably       encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure       of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering       kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked       towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally       in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love       and eloquence awaited her there.        In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow,       everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both;       and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name       the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such       a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no       inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with       which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any       charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss       Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested       desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment       were gained.        Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their       consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr.       Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for       their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his       prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas       began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter       had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was       likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion,       that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the       Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and       his wife should make their appearance at St. James’s. The whole       family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The       younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two sooner       than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved       from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid.       Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her       point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in       general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither       sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his       attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her       husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony,       marriage had always been her object; it was the only provision       for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however       uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest       preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained;       and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been       handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable       circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to       Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any       other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame       her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings       must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her       the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when       he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had       passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of       course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without       difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst       forth in such very direct questions on his return as required       some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising       great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous       love.        As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any       of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when       the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great       politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see       him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him       to visit them.        “My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly       gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and       you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon       as possible.”        They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means       wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:        “But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here,       my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the       risk of offending your patroness.”        “My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to       you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not       taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.”        “You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather       than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by       your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly       probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall       take no offence.”        “Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such       affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily       receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other       mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my       fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render       it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health       and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”        With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them       equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet       wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his       addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been       prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher       than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections       which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as       herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve       himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very       agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of       this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast,       and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of       the day before.        The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with       her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or       two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far       from possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her       astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first       the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out:        “Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!”        The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling       her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so       direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected,       she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied:        “Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it       incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s       good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with       you?”        But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong       effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that       the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her,       and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.        “I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be       surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was       wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it       over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am       not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable       home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and       situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness       with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the       marriage state.”        Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward       pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not       stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what       she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all       reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness       of Mr. Collins’s making two offers of marriage within three days       was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had       always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly       like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that,       when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better       feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins       was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend       disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the       distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to       be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.     Chapter 23        Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on       what she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to       mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his       daughter, to announce her engagement to the family. With many       compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of       a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter—to an       audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet,       with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be       entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil,       boisterously exclaimed:        “Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not       you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”        Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne       without anger such treatment; but Sir William’s good breeding       carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be       positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all       their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.        Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so       unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his       account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte       herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her       mother and sisters by the earnestness of her congratulations to       Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by       making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be       expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins,       and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.        Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal       while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than       her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she       persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she       was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she       trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly,       that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were       plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real       cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been       barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she       principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could       console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out       her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth       without scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak       to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months       were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.        Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion,       and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most       agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that       Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably       sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his       daughter!        Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she       said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for       their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it       as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas,       for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no       other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.        Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to       retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well       married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to       say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and       ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness       away.        Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept       them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded       that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again.       Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard       to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her       opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew       daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and       nothing more was heard of his return.        Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was       counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again.       The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on       Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the       solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s abode in the family       might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that       head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous       expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of       their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it       was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been       so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at       Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday       fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his       marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible,       which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his       amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the       happiest of men.        Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of       pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much       disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange       that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it       was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated       having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent,       and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were       the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the       greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence.        Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day       after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him       than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming       no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly       incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as       a most scandalous falsehood.        Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was indifferent—but       that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away.       Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane’s       happiness, and so dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she       could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of       his two unfeeling sisters and of his overpowering friend,       assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of       London might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his       attachment.        As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course,       more painful than Elizabeth’s, but whatever she felt she was       desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth,       therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such       delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which       she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his       arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come       back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane’s       steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable       tranquillity.        Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his       reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been       on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need       much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of       love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The       chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he       sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology       for his absence before the family went to bed.        Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention       of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of       ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it       talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her       successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous       abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded       her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she       spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were       talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself       and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were       dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.        “Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that       Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_       should be forced to make way for _her_, and live to see her take       her place in it!”        “My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope       for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the       survivor.”        This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore,       instead of making any answer, she went on as before.        “I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If       it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.”        “What should not you mind?”        “I should not mind anything at all.”        “Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such       insensibility.”        “I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the       entail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an       estate from one’s own daughters, I cannot understand; and all for       the sake of Mr. Collins too! Why should _he_ have it more than       anybody else?”        “I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.     Chapter 24        Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very       first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled       in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret       at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in       Hertfordshire before he left the country.        Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the       rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed       affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss       Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions       were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their       increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment       of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She       wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate       of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of       the latter with regard to new furniture.        Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all       this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided       between concern for her sister, and resentment against all       others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to       Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane,       she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had       always been disposed to like him, she could not think without       anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that       want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his       designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness       to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness,       however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to       sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her       sister’s was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible       himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be       long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing       else; and yet whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or       were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had been       aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had escaped his       observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him       must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s       situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.        A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her       feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them       together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield       and its master, she could not help saying:        “Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can       have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual       reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long.       He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”        Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but       said nothing.        “You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have       no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my       acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or       fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not       _that_ pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to       get the better.”        With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort       immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on       my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”        “My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your       sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know       what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or       loved you as you deserve.”        Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw       back the praise on her sister’s warm affection.        “Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all       the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody.       _I_ only want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself       against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my       encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need       not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of       whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I       dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the       inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little       dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or       sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not       mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable!       In every view it is unaccountable!”        “My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They       will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for       difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s       respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent character.       Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune,       it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for       everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like regard and       esteem for our cousin.”        “To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no       one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I       persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only       think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My       dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded,       silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as       well as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper       way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte       Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the       meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade       yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility       of danger security for happiness.”        “I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,”       replied Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing       them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something       else. You mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you,       but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that       person_ to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must       not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must       not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and       circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that       deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.”        “And men take care that they should.”        “If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have       no idea of there being so much design in the world as some       persons imagine.”        “I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to       design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to       make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery.       Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings,       and want of resolution, will do the business.”        “And do you impute it to either of those?”        “Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by       saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you       can.”        “You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”        “Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”        “I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They       can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no       other woman can secure it.”        “Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides       his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and       consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the       importance of money, great connections, and pride.”        “Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied       Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are       supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known       me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their       own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their       brother’s. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it,       unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed       him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so,       they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make       everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do       not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been       mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison       of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let       me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be       understood.”        Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr.       Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.        Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning       no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did       not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever       considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to       convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his       attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and       transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but       though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time,       she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best       comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.        Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he       one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate       her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little       in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives       her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn       to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is       your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all       the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a       pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”        “Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We       must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”        “True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that       whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate       mother who will make the most of it.”        Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the       gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of       the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other       recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The       whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr.       Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly       acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to       know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had       known anything of the matter.        Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might       be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the       society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always       pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes—but       by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.     Chapter 25        After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of       felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by       the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might       be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of       his bride; as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his       return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to       make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at       Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair       cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father       another letter of thanks.        On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of       receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend       the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible,       gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by       nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had       difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within       view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred and       agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs.       Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant       woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces.       Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a       particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in       town.        The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business on her arrival was to       distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When       this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her       turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and       much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she       last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of       marriage, and after all there was nothing in it.        “I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got       Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard       to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this       time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an       offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of       it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I       have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as       ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are       all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so       it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in       my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves       before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is       the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you       tell us, of long sleeves.”        Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given       before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with       her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her       nieces, turned the conversation.        When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the       subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for       Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen       so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so       easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when       accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort       of inconsistencies are very frequent.”        “An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it       will not do for _us_. We do not suffer by accident. It does not       often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a       young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom       he was violently in love with only a few days before.”        “But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so       doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is       as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour’s       acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent       was_ Mr. Bingley’s love?”        “I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite       inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every       time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own       ball he offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to       dance; and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an       answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility       the very essence of love?”        “Oh, yes!—of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt.       Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she       may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to       _you_, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner.       But do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back with us?       Change of scene might be of service—and perhaps a little relief       from home may be as useful as anything.”        Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt       persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.        “I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard       to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a       part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you       well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable that       they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.”        “And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of       his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on       Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think       of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as       Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month’s ablution       enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter       it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him.”        “So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does       not Jane correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to       help calling.”        “She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”        But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to       place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of       Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude       on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did       not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes       she thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated,       and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the       more natural influence of Jane’s attractions.        Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the       Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than       as she hoped by Caroline’s not living in the same house with her       brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without       any danger of seeing him.        The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the       Phillipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day       without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for       the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not       once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for       home, some of the officers always made part of it—of which       officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions,       Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm       commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing       them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their       preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little       uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject       before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the       imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.        To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,       unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years       ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in       that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had,       therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had       been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, it was yet       in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former       friends than she had been in the way of procuring.        Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by       character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible       subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley       with the minute description which Wickham could give, and in       bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late       possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made       acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she       tried to remember some of that gentleman’s reputed disposition       when quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident at       last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy       formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.     Chapter 26        Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly       given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her       alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went       on:        “You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely       because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not       afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your       guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an       affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent.       I have nothing to say against _him_; he is a most interesting       young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should       think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let       your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect       you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and       good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”        “My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”        “Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”        “Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of       myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me,       if I can prevent it.”        “Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”        “I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love       with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all       comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—and if he becomes       really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should       not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy!       My father’s opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I       should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial       to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to       be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every       day that where there is affection, young people are seldom       withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into       engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than       so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even       to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise       you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry       to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with       him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.”        “Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so       very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of       inviting him.”        “As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile:       “very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do       not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your       account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You       know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company       for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do       what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”        Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked       her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful       instance of advice being given on such a point, without being       resented.        Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been       quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode       with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs.       Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at       length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even       repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “_wished_       they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on       Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose       to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and       reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself,       accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs       together, Charlotte said:        “I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”        “_That_ you certainly shall.”        “And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”        “We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”        “I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me,       therefore, to come to Hunsford.”        Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in       the visit.        “My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte,       “and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza,       you will be as welcome as either of them.”        The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent       from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to       hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her       friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as       it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was       impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling       that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined       not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what       had been, rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters were       received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be       curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she       would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce       herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt       that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she       might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with       comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The       house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her       taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and       obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings       rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait       for her own visit there to know the rest.        Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce       their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth       hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.        Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as       impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without       either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it,       however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from       Longbourn had by some accident been lost.        “My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of       the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in       Grosvenor Street.”        She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss       Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words,       “but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving       her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my       last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their       brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr.       Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy       was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not       long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I       shall see them soon here.”        Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that       accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in       town.        Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She       endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but       she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After       waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing       every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last       appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the       alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no       longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister       will prove what she felt.        “My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in       her better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to       have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But,       my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not       think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her       behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I       do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate       with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am       sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit       till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the       meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no       pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not       calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and       was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went       away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no       longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very       wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say that every       advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because       she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am       very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need       not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know this anxiety to       be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account       for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his       sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural       and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such       fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have       met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from       something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner       of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is       really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were       not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say       that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I       will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of       what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable       kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very       soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to       Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any       certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that       you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford.       Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you       will be very comfortable there.—Yours, etc.”        This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as       she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister       at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely       over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions.       His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for       him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped       he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s       account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown       away.        Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise       concerning that gentleman, and required information; and       Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to       her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided,       his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else.       Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it       and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but       slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing       that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted       it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most       remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering       himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in       this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his       wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more       natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few       struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and       desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him       happy.        All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating       the circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear       aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really       experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present       detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my       feelings are not only cordial towards _him_; they are even       impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at       all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good       sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness       has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more       interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in       love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative       insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly.       Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do.       They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the       mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something       to live on as well as the plain.”     Chapter 27        With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and       otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton,       sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass       away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at       first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she       soon found, was depending on the plan and she gradually learned       to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater       certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte       again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty       in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such       uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little       change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would       moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew       near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything,       however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to       Charlotte’s first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and       his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in       London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan       could be.        The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss       her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her       going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to       answer her letter.        The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly       friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not       make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and       to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the       first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu,       wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to       expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of       her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a       solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to       him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced       that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of       the amiable and pleasing.        Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her       think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter       Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had       nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to       with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth       loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too long. He       could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and       knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his       information.        It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so       early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to       Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching       their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to       welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was       pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs       were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their       cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the       drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a       twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and       kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in       bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.        Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object       was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear,       in reply to her minute enquiries, that though Jane always       struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of       dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would       not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of       Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated       conversations occurring at different times between Jane and       herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given       up the acquaintance.        Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and       complimented her on bearing it so well.        “But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss       King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”        “Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial       affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does       discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid       of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now,       because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds,       you want to find out that he is mercenary.”        “If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall       know what to think.”        “She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of       her.”        “But he paid her not the smallest attention till her       grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune.”        “No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_       affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be       for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was       equally poor?”        “But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions       towards her so soon after this event.”        “A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those       elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does       not object to it, why should _we_?”        “_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her       being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling.”        “Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be       mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”        “No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry,       you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in       Derbyshire.”        “Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who       live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in       Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank       Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not       one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to       recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after       all.”        “Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of       disappointment.”        Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had       the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle       and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the       summer.        “We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs.       Gardiner, “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”        No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her       acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my       dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what       felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to       disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and       mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when       we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without       being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We _will_ know       where we have gone—we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes,       mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our       imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular       scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let       _our_ first effusions be less insupportable than those of the       generality of travellers.”     Chapter 28        Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to       Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she       had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her       health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant       source of delight.        When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye       was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to       bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary       on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she       had heard of its inhabitants.        At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to       the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the       laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins       and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at       the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house,       amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they       were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other.       Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and       Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming when she found       herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her       cousin’s manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal       civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some       minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his enquiries after all       her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing       out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as       soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time,       with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually       repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment.        Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not       help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the       room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself       particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had       lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and       comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of       repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she       could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr.       Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be       ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily       turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a       faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After       sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the       room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of       their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr.       Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was       large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he       attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most       respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of       countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of       the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible.       Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and       scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked       for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left       beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every       direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most       distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which       the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with       the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that       bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was       a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.        From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two       meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the       remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William       accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the       house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity       of showing it without her husband’s help. It was rather small,       but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and       arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave       Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten,       there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by       Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must       be often forgotten.        She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the       country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when       Mr. Collins joining in, observed:        “Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady       Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need       not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and       condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some       portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any       hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in       every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here.       Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at       Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her       ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I _should_ say,       one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.”        “Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,”       added Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.”        “Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort       of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”        The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,       and telling again what had already been written; and when it       closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to       meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand       her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her       husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She       had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenor       of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr.       Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A       lively imagination soon settled it all.        About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting       ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole       house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard       somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly       after her. She opened the door and met Maria in the landing       place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out—        “Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the       dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not       tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.”        Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing       more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the       lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a       low phaeton at the garden gate.        “And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the       pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady       Catherine and her daughter.”        “La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is       not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives       with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is       quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be       so thin and small?”        “She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all       this wind. Why does she not come in?”        “Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of       favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”        “I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas.       “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well.       She will make him a very proper wife.”        Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in       conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s       high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest       contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing       whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way.        At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on,       and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw       the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good       fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the       whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.     Chapter 29        Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was       complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness       to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility       towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for;       and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was       such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension, as he knew       not how to admire enough.        “I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all       surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and       spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my       knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could       have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined       that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an       invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately       after your arrival!”        “I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir       William, “from that knowledge of what the manners of the great       really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire.       About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not       uncommon.”        Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but       their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing       them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms,       so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly       overpower them.        When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to       Elizabeth—        “Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel.       Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us       which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely       to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there       is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think       the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the       distinction of rank preserved.”        While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their       different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady       Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner.       Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of       living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who had been little used to       company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings       with as much apprehension as her father had done to his       presentation at St. James’s.        As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a       mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its       prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she       could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene       to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of       the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the       glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.        When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every       moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly       calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing       of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary       talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money       or rank she thought she could witness without trepidation.        From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a       rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments,       they followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room       where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were       sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive       them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that       the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a       proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he       would have thought necessary.        In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so       completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but       just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat       without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of       her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way       to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and       could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady       Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features,       which might once have been handsome. Her air was not       conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to       make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not       rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken       in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and       brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind; and from the       observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to       be exactly what he represented.        When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and       deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she       turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in       Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was       neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss       de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain,       were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low       voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing       remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she       said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her       eyes.        After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the       windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point       out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that       it was much better worth looking at in the summer.        The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the       servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had       promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at       the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire, and looked as       if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved,       and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was       commended, first by him and then by Sir William, who was now       enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a       manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But       Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration,       and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the       table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much       conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an       opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de       Bourgh—the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady       Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time.       Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss       de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing       she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question,       and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.        When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to       be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without       any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on       every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not       used to have her judgement controverted. She enquired into       Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a       great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told her       how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as       hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her       poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great       lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of       dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs.       Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and       Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she       knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very       genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times,       how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than       herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether       they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage       her father kept, and what had been her mother’s maiden name?       Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered       them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,        “Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For       your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise       I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It       was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you       play and sing, Miss Bennet?”        “A little.”        “Oh! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our       instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try       it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”        “One of them does.”        “Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The       Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income       as yours. Do you draw?”        “No, not at all.”        “What, none of you?”        “Not one.”        “That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your       mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit       of masters.”        “My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates       London.”        “Has your governess left you?”        “We never had any governess.”        “No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up       at home without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your       mother must have been quite a slave to your education.”        Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had       not been the case.        “Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess,       you must have been neglected.”        “Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us       as wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always       encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary.       Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.”        “Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if       I had known your mother, I should have advised her most       strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be       done in education without steady and regular instruction, and       nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many       families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am       always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of       Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means;       and it was but the other day that I recommended another young       person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the       family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you       of Lady Metcalf’s calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss       Pope a treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a       treasure.’ Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”        “Yes, ma’am, all.”        “All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the       second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married!       Your younger sisters must be very young?”        “Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to       be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very       hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share       of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the       means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a       right to the pleasures of youth as the first. And to be kept back       on _such_ a motive! I think it would not be very likely to       promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”        “Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very       decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”        “With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth,       smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”        Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct       answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature       who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.        “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need       not conceal your age.”        “I am not one-and-twenty.”        When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the       card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and       Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose       to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting       Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was       superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did       not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her       fears of Miss de Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or having       too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the       other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking—stating the       mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of       herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her       ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and       apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not       say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble       names.        When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they       chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to       Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The       party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine       determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From       these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the       coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s       side and as many bows on Sir William’s they departed. As soon as       they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her       cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings,       which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it       really was. But her commendation, though costing her some       trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very       soon obliged to take her ladyship’s praise into his own hands.     Chapter 30        Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was       long enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most       comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and       such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William       was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his morning to driving him out       in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away,       the whole family returned to their usual employments, and       Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her       cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between       breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the       garden or in reading and writing, and looking out of the window       in his own book-room, which fronted the road. The room in which       the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first rather       wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlour for       common use; it was a better sized room, and had a more pleasant       aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason       for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been       much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally       lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.        From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane,       and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what       carriages went along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh       drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform       them of, though it happened almost every day. She not       unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes’       conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon       to get out.        Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to       Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it       necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that       there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could       not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they       were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped       her observation that was passing in the room during these visits.       She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and       advised them to do it differently; found fault with the       arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in       negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it       only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of       meat were too large for her family.        Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in       the commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active       magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were       carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers       were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she       sallied forth into the village to settle their differences,       silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty.        The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a       week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being       only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was       the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few,       as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond       Mr. Collins’s reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and       upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were       half-hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the       weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great       enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she       frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine,       was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where       there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but       herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s       curiosity.        In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed       away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to       bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a       circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her       arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few       weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom       she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively       new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused       in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his       behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by       Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest       satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration,       and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been       frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.        His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was       walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into       Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and       after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park,       hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following       morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were       two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had       brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his       uncle Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when       Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte       had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and       immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour       they might expect, adding:        “I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy       would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”        Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the       compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell,       and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room.       Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not       handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr.       Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in       Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to       Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her       friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth       merely curtseyed to him without saying a word.        Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the       readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very       pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight       observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some       time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his       civility was so far awakened as to enquire of Elizabeth after the       health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and       after a moment’s pause, added:        “My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you       never happened to see her there?”        She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to       see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed       between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little       confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to       meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the       gentlemen soon afterwards went away.     Chapter 31        Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the       Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably       to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some       days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for       while there were visitors in the house, they could not be       necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after       the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an       attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to       come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very       little of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had       called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr.       Darcy they had seen only at church.        The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they       joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her ladyship       received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by       no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she       was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them,       especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the       room.        Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was       a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty       friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated       himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and       Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books       and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained       in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and       flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well       as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned       towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship,       after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged,       for she did not scruple to call out:        “What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are       talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it       is.”        “We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able       to avoid a reply.        “Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my       delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are       speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose,       who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better       natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great       proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to       apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully.       How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”        Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s       proficiency.        “I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady       Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to       excel if she does not practice a good deal.”        “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such       advice. She practises very constantly.”        “So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next       write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any       account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is       to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet       several times, that she will never play really well unless she       practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is       very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every       day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room. She       would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.”        Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and       made no answer.        When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of       having promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the       instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to       half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew;       till the latter walked away from her, and making with his usual       deliberation towards the pianoforte stationed himself so as to       command a full view of the fair performer’s countenance.       Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient       pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:        “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state       to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play       so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to       be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at       every attempt to intimidate me.”        “I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you       could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming       you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough       to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing       opinions which in fact are not your own.”        Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said       to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty       notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am       particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose       my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to       pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it       is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my       disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very       impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such       things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”        “I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.        “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel       Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among       strangers.”        “You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very       dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire,       you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think       he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce;       and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was       sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the       fact.”        “I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the       assembly beyond my own party.”        “True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well,       Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your       orders.”        “Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought       an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to       strangers.”        “Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth,       still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man       of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill       qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”        “I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying       to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”        “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said       Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before.       I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested       in their concerns, as I often see done.”        “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument       in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have       not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same       expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own       fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is       not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as capable as any other       woman’s of superior execution.”        Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have       employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege       of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us       perform to strangers.”        Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to       know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began       playing again. Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening       for a few minutes, said to Darcy:        “Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more,       and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very       good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to       Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her       health allowed her to learn.”        Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his       cousin’s praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other       could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his       behaviour to Miss de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss       Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry _her_,       had she been his relation.        Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance,       mixing with them many instructions on execution and taste.       Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility,       and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained at the instrument       till her ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home.     Chapter 32        Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to       Jane while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the       village, when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain       signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it       not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension       was putting away her half-finished letter that she might escape       all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and, to her very       great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.        He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for       his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the       ladies were to be within.        They then sat down, and when her enquiries after Rosings were       made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was       absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in       this emergence recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in       Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on       the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:        “How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr.       Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley       to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he       went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope,       when you left London?”        “Perfectly so, I thank you.”        She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a       short pause added:        “I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of       ever returning to Netherfield again?”        “I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may       spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many       friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements       are continually increasing.”        “If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better       for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely,       for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But,       perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the       convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must       expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.”        “I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it       up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”        Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his       friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to       leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.        He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very       comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to       it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”        “I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her       kindness on a more grateful object.”        “Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a       wife.”        “Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with       one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him,       or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent       understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her       marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems       perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is       certainly a very good match for her.”        “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a       distance of her own family and friends.”        “An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”        “And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a       day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.”        “I should never have considered the distance as one of the       _advantages_ of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have       said Mrs. Collins was settled _near_ her family.”        “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything       beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would       appear far.”        As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she       understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and       Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:        “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near       her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on       many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the       expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But       that is not the case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a       comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent       journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself       _near_ her family under less than _half_ the present distance.”        Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_       cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_       cannot have been always at Longbourn.”        Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change       of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the       table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:        “Are you pleased with Kent?”        A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either       side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of       Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The       _tête-à-tête_ surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which       had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a       few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away.        “What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he       was gone. “My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he       would never have called on us in this familiar way.”        But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very       likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and after       various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to       proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was       the more probable from the time of year. All field sports were       over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a       billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and       in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk       to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a       temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day.       They called at various times of the morning, sometimes       separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by       their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam       came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which       of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded       by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his       evident admiration of her, of her former favourite George       Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there was less       captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she       believed he might have the best informed mind.        But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more       difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he       frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his       lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity       rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to       himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew       not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasionally       laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally       different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told       her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the       effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she       set herself seriously to work to find it out. She watched him       whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford;       but without much success. He certainly looked at her friend a       great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It       was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether       there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing       but absence of mind.        She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of       his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the       idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the       subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only       end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of a       doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would vanish, if she could       suppose him to be in her power.        In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her       marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most       pleasant man; he certainly admired her, and his situation in life       was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr.       Darcy had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin       could have none at all.     Chapter 33        More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,       unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the       mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought,       and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him       at first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could       occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and       even a third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary       penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal       enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually       thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never       said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of       talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of       their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected       questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of       solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s       happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly       understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she       came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words       seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his       thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean an       allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a       little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the       pales opposite the Parsonage.        She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane’s last       letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had       not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by       Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was       meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a       smile, she said:        “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”        “I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I       generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at       the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”        “No, I should have turned in a moment.”        And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the       Parsonage together.        “Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.        “Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his       disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”        “And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at       least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know       anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes       than Mr. Darcy.”        “He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel       Fitzwilliam. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better       means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many       others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must       be inured to self-denial and dependence.”        “In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little       of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial       and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money       from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a       fancy for?”        “These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have       experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of       greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons       cannot marry where they like.”        “Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very       often do.”        “Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not       many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some       attention to money.”        “Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at       the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And       pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless       the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask       above fifty thousand pounds.”        He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To       interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected with       what had passed, she soon afterwards said:        “I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the       sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not       marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But,       perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is       under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.”        “No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he       must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of       Miss Darcy.”        “Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make?       Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age       are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the       true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”        As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the       manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss       Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she       had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly       replied:        “You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I       dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world.       She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my       acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard       you say that you know them.”        “I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike       man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”        “Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to       Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”        “Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him       in those points where he most wants care. From something that he       told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley       very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I       have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It       was all conjecture.”        “What is it you mean?”        “It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally       known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it       would be an unpleasant thing.”        “You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”        “And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be       Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated       himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences       of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any       other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from       believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that       sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of       last summer.”        “Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”        “I understood that there were some very strong objections against       the lady.”        “And what arts did he use to separate them?”        “He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam,       smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.”        Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with       indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her       why she was so thoughtful.        “I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your       cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the       judge?”        “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”        “I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety       of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement       alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend       was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as       we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him.       It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the       case.”        “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is       a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”        This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a       picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an       answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked       on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. There,       shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she       could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It       was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than       those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the       world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless       influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to       separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had       always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and       arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead       him, _he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of       all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had       ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most       affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say       how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.        “There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were       Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words; and those strong objections probably       were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and       another who was in business in London.        “To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility       of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—her       understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners       captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father,       who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy       himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will       probably never reach.” When she thought of her mother, her       confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any       objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose       pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the       want of importance in his friend’s connections, than from their       want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had       been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by       the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.        The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on       a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that,       added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her       not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to       drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did       not press her to go and as much as possible prevented her husband       from pressing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his       apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her       staying at home.     Chapter 34        When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate       herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her       employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had       written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual       complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any       communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost       every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which       had been used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding       from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly       disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded.       Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of       uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the       first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had       been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister’s       sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to       Rosings was to end on the day after the next—and, a still       greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with       Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her       spirits, by all that affection could do.        She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering       that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had       made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as       he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.        While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound       of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the       idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once       before called late in the evening, and might now come to enquire       particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her       spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter       amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried       manner he immediately began an enquiry after her health, imputing       his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered       him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then       getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but       said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came       towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:        “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not       be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire       and love you.”        Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared,       coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient       encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long       felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were       feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was       not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His       sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family       obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on       with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was       wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.        In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be       insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and       though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at       first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to       resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in       anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with       patience, when he should have done. He concluded with       representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in       spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer;       and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her       acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see       that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of       apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real       security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and,       when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said:        “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to       express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however       unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation       should be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now       thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion,       and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry       to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously       done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings       which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of       your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after       this explanation.”        Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes       fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less       resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger,       and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He       was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not       open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The       pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At length, with a       voice of forced calmness, he said:        “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of       expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so       little _endeavour_ at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of       small importance.”        “I might as well enquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a       desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that       you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even       against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility,       if I _was_ uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I       have. Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been       indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that       any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been       the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most       beloved sister?”        As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the       emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to       interrupt her while she continued:        “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive       can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You       dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if       not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing       one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and       the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving       them both in misery of the acutest kind.”        She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was       listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any       feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of       affected incredulity.        “Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.        With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of       denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend       from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_       I have been kinder than towards myself.”        Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil       reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to       conciliate her.        “But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my       dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of       you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which       I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject,       what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can       you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you       here impose upon others?”        “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said       Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.        “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling       an interest in him?”        “His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his       misfortunes have been great indeed.”        “And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have       reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty.       You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been       designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of       that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You       have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his       misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”        “And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the       room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you       hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults,       according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,”       added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these       offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt       by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented       my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might       have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my       struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled       by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection,       by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor       am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and       just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your       connections?—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations,       whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”        Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she       tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said:        “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of       your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared       me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you       behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”        She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she       continued:        “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible       way that would have tempted me to accept it.”        Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an       expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:        “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost       say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with       the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your       selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form       the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have       built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month       before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I       could ever be prevailed on to marry.”        “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your       feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have       been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and       accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”        And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth       heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.        The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how       to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried       for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had       passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should       receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have       been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to       wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made       him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must       appear at least with equal force in his own case—was almost       incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so       strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his       shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his       unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not       justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned       Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to       deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his       attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very       agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage       made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s       observation, and hurried her away to her room.     Chapter 35        Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and       meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not       yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was       impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for       employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge       herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her       favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes       coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she       turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The       park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon       passed one of the gates into the ground.        After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she       was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the       gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now       passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and       every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was       on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of       a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was       moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was       directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near       enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness,       pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself       called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she       moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it       also, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took,       said, with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in       the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me       the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a slight bow,       turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.        With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest       curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still       increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of       letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The       envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the       lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight       o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:—        “Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the       apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments       or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to       you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling       myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both,       cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation       and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been       spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.       You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your       attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but       I demand it of your justice.        “Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of       equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first       mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I       had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I       had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and       humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the       prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown       off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my       father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on       our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its       exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two       young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few       weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that       blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each       circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the       following account of my actions and their motives has been read.       If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am       under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive       to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be       obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.        “I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common       with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any       other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening       of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his       feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love       before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you,       I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental       information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given       rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it       as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided.       From that moment I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively;       and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was       beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also       watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging       as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I       remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she       received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by       any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken       here, _I_ must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of       your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have       been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment       has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert,       that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such       as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that,       however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily       touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is       certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and       decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did       not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed       it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My       objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last       night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion       to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be       so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other       causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and       existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself       endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before       me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of       your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in       comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so       almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger       sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It       pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects       of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this       representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider       that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of       the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and       your elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense and       disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what       passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and       every inducement heightened which could have led me before, to       preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy       connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following,       as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon       returning.        “The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’       uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence       of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time       was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on       joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I       readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the       certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them       earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or       delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would       ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded       by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s       indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection       with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great       natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than       on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived       himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against       returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been       given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself       for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in       the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it       is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to       conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself,       as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet       ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence       is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough       extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this       concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however,       and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more       to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your       sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done and though the motives       which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient,       I have not yet learnt to condemn them.        “With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having       injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you       the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has       _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what       I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted       veracity.        “Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for       many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose       good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my       father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was       his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My       father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most       important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the       extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a       gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this young       man’s society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also       the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his       profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it       is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very       different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle,       which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best       friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly       the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing       him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here       again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But       whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a       suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his       real character—it adds even another motive.        “My excellent father died about five years ago; and his       attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his       will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his       advancement in the best manner that his profession might       allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family       living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a       legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long       survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr.       Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against       taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for       him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of       the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some       intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that       the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient       support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be       sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his       proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman;       the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to       assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be       in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three       thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved.       I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his       society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his       studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all       restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For       about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of       the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he       applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His       circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in       believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most       unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being       ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of       which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well       assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could       not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will       hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for       resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in       proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was       doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his       reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of       acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last       summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.        “I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget       myself, and which no obligation less than the present should       induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I       feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten       years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s       nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she       was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in       London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over       it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly       by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance       between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most       unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far       recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart       retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child,       that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent       to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her       excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that       I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly       a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana,       unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother       whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole       to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my       sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I       wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs.       Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief       object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty       thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of       revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge       would have been complete indeed.        “This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we       have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject       it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty       towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form       of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not       perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of       everything concerning either, detection could not be in your       power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.        “You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last       night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what       could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here       related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of       Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant       intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father’s       will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of       these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_ should make _my_       assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause       from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the       possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some       opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of       the morning. I will only add, God bless you.        “FITZWILLIAM DARCY”     Chapter 36        If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect       it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no       expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may       well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a       contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read       were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first       understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and       steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation       to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a       strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his       account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an       eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from       impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was       incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes.       His belief of her sister’s insensibility she instantly resolved       to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to       the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him       justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which       satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was       all pride and insolence.        But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr.       Wickham—when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation       of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion       of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own       history of himself—her feelings were yet more acutely painful and       more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and       even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely,       repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This       must be the grossest falsehood!”—and when she had gone through       the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last       page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not       regard it, that she would never look in it again.        In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on       nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the       letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she       could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related       to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the       meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the       Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the       kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known       its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each       recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the       difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was       fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was       impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side       or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that       her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the       closest attention, the particulars immediately following of       Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his       receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds,       again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter,       weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be       impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but       with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again       she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair,       which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could       so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than       infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely       blameless throughout the whole.        The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to       lay at Mr. Wickham’s charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more       so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never       heard of him before his entrance into the ——shire Militia, in       which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on       meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight       acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in       Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character,       had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of       enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him       at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect       some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity       or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.       Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for       those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what       Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’       continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could       see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address;       but she could remember no more substantial good than the general       approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social       powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a       considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas!       the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received       some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel       Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she       was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel       Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she had previously received the       information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and       whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she       had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked       by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly       banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have       hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his       cousin’s corroboration.        She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in       conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening       at Mr. Phillips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in       her memory. She was _now_ struck with the impropriety of such       communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her       before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he       had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his       conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of       seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that       _he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield       ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the       Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story       to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been       everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples       in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that       respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.        How differently did everything now appear in which he was       concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence       of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of       her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but       his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself       could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been       deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his       vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had       most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour       grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr.       Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned       by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;       that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in       the whole course of their acquaintance—an acquaintance which had       latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of       intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be       unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or       immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed       and valued—that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother,       and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his       sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling; that had       his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a       violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed       from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of       it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.        She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor       Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind,       partial, prejudiced, absurd.        “How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided       myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my       abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my       sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust!       How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation!       Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind!       But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the       preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on       the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted       prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either       were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”        From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a       line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s       explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read       it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal.       How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance,       which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared       himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment;       and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had       always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his       description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though       fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant       complacency in her air and manner not often united with great       sensibility.        When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were       mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her       sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her       too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he       particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball,       and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have       made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.        The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It       soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had       thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she       considered that Jane’s disappointment had in fact been the work       of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit       of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt       depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.        After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every       variety of thought—re-considering events, determining       probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to       a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection       of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she       entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual,       and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make       her unfit for conversation.        She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had       each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few       minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been       sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and       almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found.       Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in missing him; she       really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an       object; she could think only of her letter.     Chapter 37        The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins       having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting       obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of       their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits       as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone       through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady       Catherine and her daughter; and on his return brought back, with       great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that       she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having       them all to dine with her.        Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that,       had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to       her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of       what her ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she       have said? how would she have behaved?” were questions with which       she amused herself.        Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I       assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I       believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I       am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be       so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so       they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably       till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely,       more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings       certainly increases.”        Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here,       which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.        Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed       out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it herself, by       supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she       added:        “But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg       that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad       of your company, I am sure.”        “I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,”       replied Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I       must be in town next Saturday.”        “Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I       expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before       you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs.       Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.”        “But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”        “Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can.       Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if       you will stay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to       take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in       June, for a week; and as Dawson does not object to the       barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you—and       indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not       object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”        “You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our       original plan.”        Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a       servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot       bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves.       It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have       the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young       women should always be properly guarded and attended, according       to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to       Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two       men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy,       of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with       propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to       all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs.       Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would       really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.”        “My uncle is to send a servant for us.”        “Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad       you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you       change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at       the Bell, you will be attended to.”        Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their       journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention       was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or,       with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was.       Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was       alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day       went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in       all the delight of unpleasant recollections.        Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by       heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its       writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the       style of his address, she was still full of indignation; but when       she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him,       her anger was turned against herself; and his disappointed       feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited       gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not       approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or       feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own       past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and       regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of       yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father,       contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to       restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her       mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely       insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane       in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia;       but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what       chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,       irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always       affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless,       would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and       vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt       with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they       would be going there forever.        Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr.       Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good       opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His       affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct       cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness       of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the       thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so       replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been       deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!        When to these recollections was added the development of       Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy       spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much       affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear       tolerably cheerful.        Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last       week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening       was spent there; and her ladyship again enquired minutely into       the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the       best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of       placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself       obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and       pack her trunk afresh.        When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension,       wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford       again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to       curtsey and hold out her hand to both.     Chapter 38        On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a       few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the       opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed       indispensably necessary.        “I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has       yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I       am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving       her thanks for it. The favour of your company has been much felt,       I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our       humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few       domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford       extremely dull to a young lady like yourself; but I hope you will       believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done       everything in our power to prevent your spending your time       unpleasantly.”        Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness.       She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of       being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received,       must make _her_ feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and       with a more smiling solemnity replied:        “It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your       time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most       fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very       superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the       frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may       flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been       entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine’s       family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing       which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see       how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge       that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I       should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion,       while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”        Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he       was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to       unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.        “You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into       Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you       will be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great attentions to Mrs.       Collins you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust       it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate—but       on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure       you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most       cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte       and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in       everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas       between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.”        Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where       that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she       firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was       not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by       the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy       to leave her to such society! But she had chosen it with her eyes       open; and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to       go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her       housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent       concerns, had not yet lost their charms.        At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the       parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After       an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was       attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down       the garden he was commissioning her with his best respects to all       her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had       received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr.       and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria       followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he       suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had       hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at       Rosings.        “But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble       respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their       kindness to you while you have been here.”        Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be       shut, and the carriage drove off.        “Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it       seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many       things have happened!”        “A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.        “We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there       twice! How much I shall have to tell!”        Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to       conceal!”        Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any       alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they       reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain a few       days.        Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of       studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the       kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go       home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for       observation.        It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even       for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s       proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would       so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time, so       highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been       able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing       could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she       remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and her       fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into       repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister       further.     Chapter 39        It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies       set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in       Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr.       Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in       token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking       out of a dining-room up stairs. These two girls had been above an       hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite       milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad       and cucumber.        After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a       table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually       affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable       surprise?”        “And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend       us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.”       Then, showing her purchases—“Look here, I have bought this       bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might       as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get       home, and see if I can make it up any better.”        And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect       unconcern, “Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the       shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim       it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it       will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the       ——shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”        “Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest       satisfaction.        “They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want       papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a       delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at       all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a       miserable summer else we shall have!”        “Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “_that_ would be a delightful scheme       indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton,       and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset       already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of       Meryton!”        “Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down       at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital       news—and about a certain person we all like!”        Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told       he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:        “Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You       thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he       often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is       an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long       chin in my life. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear       Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger       of Wickham’s marrying Mary King. There’s for you! She is gone       down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”        “And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection       imprudent as to fortune.”        “She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”        “But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said       Jane.        “I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never       cared three straws about her—who _could_ about such a nasty       little freckled thing?”        Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such       coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the       _sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had harboured       and fancied liberal!        As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was       ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all       their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition       of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it.        “How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I       bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another       bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk       and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear       what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen       any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes       that one of you would have got a husband before you came back.       Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost       three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being       married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to       get husbands, you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have       taken Mr. Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any       fun in it. Lord! how I should like to be married before any of       you; and then I would _chaperon_ you about to all the balls. Dear       me! we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel       Forster’s. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs.       Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the       bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so she asked       the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was       forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We       dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes on purpose to pass for       a lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel       and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were       forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how       well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or       three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the       least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I       should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect something, and       then they soon found out what was the matter.”        With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did       Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to       amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened       as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent       mention of Wickham’s name.        Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to       see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner       did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:        “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”        Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the       Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were       the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas was enquiring of       Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs.       Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of       the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and,       on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and       Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, was       enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who       would hear her.        “Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had       such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and       pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone       so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to       the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated       the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and       if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then       when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have       got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we       were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud,       that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”        To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear       sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be       congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they       would have no charms for _me_—I should infinitely prefer a book.”        But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to       anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary       at all.        In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to       walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth       steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss       Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in       pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her       opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was       resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_ of       the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression.       In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there       could be nothing more to plague her on his account.        She had not been many hours at home before she found that the       Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn,       was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw       directly that her father had not the smallest intention of       yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and       equivocal, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never       yet despaired of succeeding at last.     Chapter 40        Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened       could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress       every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing       her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the       chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.        Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong       sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear       perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other       feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his       sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but       still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s       refusal must have given him.        “His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and       certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it       must increase his disappointment!”        “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he       has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his       regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”        “Blame you! Oh, no.”        “But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”        “No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”        “But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very       next day.”        She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents       as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this       for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone through the world       without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole       race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was       Darcy’s vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of       consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour       to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one       without involving the other.        “This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to       make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you       must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of       merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and       of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am       inclined to believe it all Darcy’s; but you shall do as you       choose.”        It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from       Jane.        “I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham       so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear       Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a       disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too!       and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too       distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.”        “Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you       so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that       I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your       profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much       longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.”        “Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his       countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”        “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of       those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other       all the appearance of it.”        “I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it       as you used to do.”        “And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a       dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s       genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind.       One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but       one cannot always be laughing at a man without now and then       stumbling on something witty.”        “Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not       treat the matter as you do now.”        “Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say       unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane       to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain       and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!”        “How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong       expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they       _do_ appear wholly undeserved.”        “Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a       most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been       encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I       want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our       acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.”        Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can       be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your       opinion?”        “That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised       me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every       particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as       possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to       the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general       prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the       death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him       in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be       gone; and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he       really is. Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we       may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present       I will say nothing about it.”        “You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin       him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and       anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him       desperate.”        The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation.       She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her       for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane,       whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was       still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the       disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s       letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been       valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could       partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect       understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing       off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if       that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely       be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable       manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till       it has lost all its value!”        She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the       real state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still       cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even       fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of       first attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater       steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so       fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every       other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the       feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence       of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health       and their tranquillity.        “Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion       _now_ of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am       determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my       sister Phillips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane       saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving       young man—and I do not suppose there’s the least chance in the       world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming       to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of       everybody, too, who is likely to know.”        “I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”        “Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come.       Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and       if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort       is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart; and then he will       be sorry for what he has done.”        But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such       expectation, she made no answer.        “Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the       Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope       it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is       an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her       mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in       _their_ housekeeping, I dare say.”        “No, nothing at all.”        “A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes.       _They_ will take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will       never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them!       And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your       father is dead. They look upon it as quite their own, I dare say,       whenever that happens.”        “It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”        “No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt       they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be       easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the       better. _I_ should be ashamed of having one that was only       entailed on me.”     Chapter 41        The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began.       It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the       young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The       dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were       still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course       of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for       this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was       extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in       any of the family.        “Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would       they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be       smiling so, Lizzy?”        Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered       what she had herself endured on a similar occasion,       five-and-twenty years ago.        “I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when       Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have       broken my heart.”        “I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia.        “If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.        “Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so       disagreeable.”        “A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”        “And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of       good,” added Kitty.        Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through       Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all       sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of       Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so much disposed       to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.        But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for       she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the       colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This       invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately       married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had       recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_       months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.        The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs.       Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of       Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her       sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless       ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and       talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty       continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as       unreasonable as her accent was peevish.        “I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as       Lydia,” said she, “Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I       have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for       I am two years older.”        In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to       make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was       so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother       and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all       possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as       such a step must make her were it known, she could not help       secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented       to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the       little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a       woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more       imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the       temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her       attentively, and then said:        “Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some       public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with       so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the       present circumstances.”        “If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great       disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of       Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already       arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the       affair.”        “Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened       away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast       down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a       little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the       list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s       folly.”        “Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It       is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now       complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must       be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of       all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for I must       speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble       of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her       present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will       soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be       fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt       that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in       the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any       attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the       ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off       any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for       admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is       comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,       ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father,       can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and       despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not       be often involved in the disgrace?”        Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and       affectionately taking her hand said in reply:        “Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are       known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear       to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very       silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does       not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a       sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she       is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At       Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt       than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth       their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may       teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow       many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the       rest of her life.”        With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own       opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and       sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her       vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having       performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or       augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.        Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference       with her father, their indignation would hardly have found       expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a       visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly       happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets       of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself       the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present       unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents stretched       forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young       and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the       view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting       with at least six officers at once.        Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects       and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations?       They could have been understood only by her mother, who might       have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that       consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband’s never       intending to go there himself.        But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their       raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of       Lydia’s leaving home.        Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having       been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation       was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality       entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very       gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a       sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to       herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the       inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which       had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve,       after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern       for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such       idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed       it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing,       that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had       been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference       secured at any time by their renewal.        On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he       dined, with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little       was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on       his making some enquiry as to the manner in which her time had       passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr.       Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him,       if he was acquainted with the former.        He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment’s       recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly       seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very       gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer       was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon       afterwards added:        “How long did you say he was at Rosings?”        “Nearly three weeks.”        “And you saw him frequently?”        “Yes, almost every day.”        “His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”        “Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon       acquaintance.”        “Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her.       “And pray, may I ask?—” But checking himself, he added, in a       gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to       add aught of civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not       hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is       improved in essentials.”        “Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very       much what he ever was.”        While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to       rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a       something in her countenance which made him listen with an       apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:        “When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean       that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but       that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better       understood.”        Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and       agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off       his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the       gentlest of accents:        “You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily       comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to       assume even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that       direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others,       for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have       suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which       you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his       visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands       much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when       they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish       of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain       he has very much at heart.”        Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered       only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted       to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was       in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with       the _appearance_, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no       further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last       with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never       meeting again.        When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to       Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning.       The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than       pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep       from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good       wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her       injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying       herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason       to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous       happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle       adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.     Chapter 42        Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she       could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal       felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and       beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty       generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and       illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all       real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had       vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were       overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek       comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had       brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the       unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of the       country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his       principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise       indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his       amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in       general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of       entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive       benefit from such as are given.        Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of       her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with       pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his       affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what       she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that       continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in       exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so       highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now       the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable       a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising       from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which,       rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of       his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his       wife.        When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure she found       little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment.       Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home       she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the       dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their       domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in time regain her       natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were       removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil       might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly       and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a       watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found,       what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she       had looked forward with impatient desire did not, in taking       place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It       was consequently necessary to name some other period for the       commencement of actual felicity—to have some other point on which       her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the       pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and       prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes was now       the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation       for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her       mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included       Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.        “But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to       wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment       would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless       source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to       have all my expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of which       every part promises delight can never be successful; and general       disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little       peculiar vexation.”        When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very       minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always       long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother       contained little else than that they were just returned from the       library, where such and such officers had attended them, and       where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite       wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would       have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a       violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going       off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister,       there was still less to be learnt—for her letters to Kitty,       though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words       to be made public.        After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health,       good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn.       Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in       town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer       engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual       querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was so much       recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event       of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the       following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not       to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and       malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should       be quartered in Meryton.        The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now       fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a       letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its       commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be       prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in       July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that       left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as       they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and       comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the       Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to       the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than       Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy       the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a       peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly       passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a       few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all       the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the       Peak.        Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on       seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time       enough. But it was her business to be satisfied—and certainly her       temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.        With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected.       It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of       Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his       county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without       his perceiving me.”        The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to       pass away before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass       away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at       length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and       eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the       particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general       favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly       adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them,       playing with them, and loving them.        The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the       next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.       One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a       suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear       inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and       affection and intelligence, which might supply it among       themselves if there were disappointments abroad.        It is not the object of this work to give a description of       Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which       their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth,       Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of       Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of       Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where       she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they       bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of       the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found       from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their       direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking       over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an       inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his       willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.        “My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have       heard so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many       of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth       there, you know.”        Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at       Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing       it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after       going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or       satin curtains.        Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine       house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it       myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the       finest woods in the country.”        Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The       possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place,       instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very       idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt       than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections;       and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if       her private enquiries to the absence of the family were       unfavourably answered.        Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid       whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name       of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family       were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the       last question—and her alarms now being removed, she was at       leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house       herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and       she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper       air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the       scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.     Chapter 43        Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance       of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length       they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.        The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground.       They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some       time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.        Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and       admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually       ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of       a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was       instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite       side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound.       It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising       ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front,       a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but       without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal       nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen       a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty       had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were       all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt       that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!        They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the       door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all       her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest       the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place,       they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited       for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she       was.        The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much       less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding       her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large,       well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after       slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect.       The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving       increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object.       Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the       whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the       winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with       delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were       taking different positions; but from every window there were       beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their       furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but       Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither       gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real       elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.        “And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress!       With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted!       Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in       them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and       aunt. But no,”—recollecting herself—“that could never be; my       uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been       allowed to invite them.”        This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very       like regret.        She longed to enquire of the housekeeper whether her master was       really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however,       the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with       alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we       expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How       rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any       circumstance been delayed a day!        Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and       saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other       miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly,       how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it       was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s       steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He       is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has       turned out very wild.”        Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth       could not return it.        “And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the       miniatures, “is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the       same time as the other—about eight years ago.”        “I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs.       Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But,       Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”        Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this       intimation of her knowing her master.        “Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”        Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”        “And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”        “Yes, very handsome.”        “I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up       stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.       This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these       miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of       them.”        This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them.        Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy,       drawn when she was only eight years old.        “And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs.       Gardiner.        “Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so       accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In the next room       is a new instrument just come down for her—a present from my       master; she comes here to-morrow with him.”        Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant,       encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks;       Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great       pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.        “Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”        “Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend       half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer       months.”        “Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”        “If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”        “Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know       who is good enough for him.”        Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,       “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think       so.”        “I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows       him,” replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty       far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the       housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in       my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”        This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite       to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her       firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed       to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:        “There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are       lucky in having such a master.”        “Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I       could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that       they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when       they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most       generous-hearted boy in the world.”        Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought       she.        “His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.        “Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like       him—just as affable to the poor.”        Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for       more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She       related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the       rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner,       highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he       attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led       again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many       merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.        “He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that       ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of       nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or       servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him       proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it       is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”        “In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought       Elizabeth.        “This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked,       “is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”        “Perhaps we might be deceived.”        “That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”        On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very       pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and       lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it       was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a       liking to the room when last at Pemberley.        “He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked       towards one of the windows.        Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should       enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added.       “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in       a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”        The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms,       were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good       paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such       as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to       look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects       were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.        In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could       have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked       in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her.       At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to       Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to       have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several       minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and       returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs.       Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father’s       lifetime.        There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more       gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at       the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on       him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is       more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a       brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s       happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain       was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be       done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the       housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood       before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes       upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment       of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its       warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.        When all of the house that was open to general inspection had       been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the       housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at       the hall-door.        As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth       turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and       while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building,       the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road,       which led behind it to the stables.        They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was       his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their       eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with       the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed       immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced       towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of       perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.        She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,       received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be       overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the       picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure       the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s       expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately       have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to       their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift       her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to       his civil enquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of       his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered       was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the       impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the       few minutes in which they continued were some of the most       uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease;       when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and       he repeated his enquiries as to the time of her having left       Longbourn, and of her stay in Derbyshire, so often, and in so       hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.        At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a       few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected       himself, and took leave.        The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his       figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by       her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered       by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate,       the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must       appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so       vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself       in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come       a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes       sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his       discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment       arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She       blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And       his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he       should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such       civility, to enquire after her family! Never in her life had she       seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with       such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast       did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his       letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to       account for it.        They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water,       and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a       finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it       was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and,       though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her       uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as       they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her       thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House,       whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to       know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he       thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was       still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt       himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was       not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in       seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her       with composure.        At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence       of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more       like herself.        They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a       while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where       the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many       charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long       range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the       stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole       park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant       smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the       matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought       them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to       the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They       crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air       of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet       visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed       room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough       coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its       windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived       their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great       walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the       carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore,       obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on       the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but       their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to       indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much       engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in       the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced       but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were       again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal to       what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching       them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less       sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before       they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more       prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and       to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a       few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into       some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk       concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was       immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost       none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she       began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she       had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when       some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise       of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her       colour changed, and she said no more.        Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing,       he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to       her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was       quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his       being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people       against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself.       “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they       are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”        The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named       their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to       see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his       decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions.       That he was _surprised_ by the connection was evident; he       sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going       away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with       Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but       triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some       relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most       attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every       expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his       intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.        The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr.       Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as       often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood,       offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and       pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually       most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with       Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said       nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be       all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and       continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what       can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_—it cannot be for _my_ sake       that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could       not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should       still love me.”        After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the       two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending       to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some       curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It       originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the       morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and       consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by       her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence,       the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been       assured of his absence before she came to the place, and       accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very       unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that       you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed,       before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not       immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth       of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned       his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with       whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,”       he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an       acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”        Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were       instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had       been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by       his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged.        “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after       a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will       you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to       your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”        The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too       great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She       immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of       being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and,       without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying       to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of       her.        They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought.       Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was       flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her       was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the       others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs.       Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.        He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself       not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time       much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She       wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every       subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling,       and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance.       Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas       were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ was over.        On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go       into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined,       and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy       handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off,       Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.        The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of       them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they       had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and       unassuming,” said her uncle.        “There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,”       replied her aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not       unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some       people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it.”        “I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was       more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no       necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was       very trifling.”        “To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as       Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his       features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he       was so disagreeable?”        Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had       liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that       she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.        “But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,”       replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I       shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind       another day, and warn me off his grounds.”        Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his       character, but said nothing.        “From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I       really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so       cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not       an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing       about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity       in his countenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea       of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his       house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help       laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose,       and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue.”        Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in       vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them       to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what       she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were       capable of a very different construction; and that his character       was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had       been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she       related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in       which they had been connected, without actually naming her       authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.        Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now       approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave       way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in       pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its       environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by       the morning’s walk they had no sooner dined than she set off       again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was       spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many       years’ discontinuance.        The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave       Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she       could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s       civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted       with his sister.     Chapter 44        Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to       visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was       consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole       of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very       morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They       had been walking about the place with some of their new friends,       and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining       with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a       window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving       up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery,       guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her       surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour       which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and       the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the       circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the       preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing       had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no       other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter       than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these       newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation       of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. She was       quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of       disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should       have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious       to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing       would fail her.        She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she       walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw       such looks of enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made       everything worse.        Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable       introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that       her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself.       Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was       exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes       convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it       difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.        Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and,       though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her       appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her       brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her       manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had       expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as       ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such       different feelings.        They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that       Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time       to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when       Bingley’s quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he       entered the room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long       done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood       its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he       expressed himself on seeing her again. He enquired in a friendly,       though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with       the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.        To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting       personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The       whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The       suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece       directed their observation towards each with an earnest though       guarded enquiry; and they soon drew from those enquiries the full       conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of       the lady’s sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that       the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.        Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain       the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her       own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter       object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of       success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were       prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was       eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.        In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister;       and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his       were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he       talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased       herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying       to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she       could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had       been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side       that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that       could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon       satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere       they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a       recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of       saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared.       He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking       together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that       it “was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing       her;” and, before she could reply, he added, “It is above eight       months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were       all dancing together at Netherfield.”        Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he       afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of       the rest, whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was       not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there       was a look and a manner which gave them meaning.        It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy       himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an       expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said she       heard an accent so removed from _hauteur_ or disdain of his       companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners       which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary its existence       might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus       seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people       with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a       disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to       the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected       their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage—the difference, the       change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she       could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never,       even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his       dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to       please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as       now, when no importance could result from the success of his       endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his       attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and       censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.        Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they       arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in       expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss       Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country.       Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in       the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner       looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how _she_, whom the       invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance,       but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that       this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment       than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who       was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she       ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next       was fixed on.        Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing       Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and       many enquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends.       Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak       of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some       others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of       considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though       while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager       to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her uncle and       aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their       favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.        But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity;       it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident       that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had       before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love       with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify       enquiry.        Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and,       as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find.       They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn       his character from their own feelings and his servant’s report,       without any reference to any other account, the circle in       Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it       for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in believing       the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority       of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and       whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily       rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of       their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight.       They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably       had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants       of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was       acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much       good among the poor.        With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was       not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his       concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood,       it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he       had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards       discharged.        As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening       more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it       seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings       towards _one_ in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours       endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate him.       No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been       ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so       called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable       qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some       time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now       heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony       so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in       so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all,       above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of       goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude;       gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving       her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony       of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations       accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would       avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental       meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any       indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where       their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good       opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his       sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only       astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be       attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to be       encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be       exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to       him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted       to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself,       and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should       employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed,       of bringing on her the renewal of his addresses.        It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the       niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s in coming to       see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had       reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though       it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their       side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to       wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were,       therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked       herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.        Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme       had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made       of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.     Chapter 45        Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her       had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how       unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was       curious to know with how much civility on that lady’s side the       acquaintance would now be renewed.        On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the       saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer.       Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing       view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the       beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over       the intermediate lawn.        In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting       there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom       she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very       civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though       proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily       give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her       being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however,       did her justice, and pitied her.        By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a       curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such       pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first       broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman,       whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to       be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between       her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the       conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished       for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a       short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.        Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss       Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss       Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation would not       have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they       not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she was not       sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts       were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the       gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the       master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished       or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in       this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley’s       voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold enquiry       after the health of her family. She answered with equal       indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.        The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the       entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all       the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till       after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to       Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was       now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all       talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes,       nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.        While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding       whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr.       Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room;       and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes       to predominate, she began to regret that he came.        He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three       other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had       left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended       a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than       Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;       a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the       more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the       whole party were awakened against them, and that there was       scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first       came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so       strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles       which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its       objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her       attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her       brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and       Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to       get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt       at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this       likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first       opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:        “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed from       Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family.”        In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but       Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her       thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave       her a moment’s distress; but exerting herself vigorously to repel       the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a       tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance       showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking       at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to       lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then       giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained       from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose       Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she       believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which       might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the       latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of       her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had       ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated elopement. To no       creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except       to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections her brother was       particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which       Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming       hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and       without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate       him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something       to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.        Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his       emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not       approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time,       though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother,       whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest       in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed       to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on       her more and more cheerfully.        Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer       above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their       carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on       Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not       join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her       favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such       terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of       finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy       returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to       him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.        “How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,”       she cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she       is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and       I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.”        However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he       contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other       alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous       consequence of travelling in the summer.        “For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never       could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion       has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her       nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her       teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for       her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never       see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish       look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there       is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.”        Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this       was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people       are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat       nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely       silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak,       she continued:        “I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed       we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I       particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been       dining at Netherfield, ‘_She_ a beauty!—I should as soon call her       mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I       believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”        “Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but       _that_ was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since       I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my       acquaintance.”        He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the       satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any       pain but herself.        Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred       during their visit, as they returned, except what had       particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of       everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who       had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister,       his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but himself; yet       Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him,       and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s       beginning the subject.     Chapter 46        Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a       letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this       disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had       now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and       her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at       once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent       elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written       the direction remarkably ill.        They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and       her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off       by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had       been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of       all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the       country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day       later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important       intelligence. It was to this effect:        “Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred       of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of       alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say       relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just       as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us       that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to       own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty,       however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very       sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to       hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.       Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this       step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His       choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can       give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father       bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know       what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They       were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were       not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent       off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten       miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here       soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their       intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor       mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I       hardly know what I have written.”        Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely       knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter       instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost       impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than       the conclusion of the first.        “By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried       letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not       confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer       for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would       write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.       Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia       would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place,       for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to       Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton       the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s       short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were       going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing       his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia       at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking       the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did       trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering       that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the       chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this       is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not       what to think. After making every possible enquiry on that side       London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing       them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and       Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been seen to       pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn,       and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to       his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one       can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very       great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think       so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for       them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first       plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a young       woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose       her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however,       that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he       shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W.       was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and       keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but       this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my       life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having       concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence,       one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have       been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as       the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return?       I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if       inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have       just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I       cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as       possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not       afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to       ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel       Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I       am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him       to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel       Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In       such an exigence, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be       everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I       must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”        “Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her       seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him,       without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she       reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy       appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and       before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind       every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily       exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find       Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I       have not an instant to lose.”        “Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than       politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a       minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs.       Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”        Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she       felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them.       Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though       in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to       fetch his master and mistress home instantly.        On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself,       and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to       leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and       commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could       take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you       one? You are very ill.”        “No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself.       “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only       distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from       Longbourn.”        She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes       could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could       only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her       in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just       had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be       concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her       friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr.       Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him       too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,       nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”        Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in       a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ might have prevented it! _I_       who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it       only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his       character been known, this could not have happened. But it is       all—all too late now.”        “I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it       certain—absolutely certain?”        “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were       traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not       gone to Scotland.”        “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover       her?”        “My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my       uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in       half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that       nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are       they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is       every way horrible!”        Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.        “When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known       what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of       doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”        Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was       walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow       contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and       instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything _must_       sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of       the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, but       the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to       her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the       contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own       wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have       loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.        But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.       Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all,       soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with       her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else;       and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a       sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a       manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise       restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring my       absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but       real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything       could be either said or done on my part that might offer       consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with       vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.       This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having       the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”        “Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say       that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the       unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be       long.”        He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow       for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was       at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her       relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.        As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that       they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality       as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she       threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their       acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at       the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted       its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its       termination.        If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,       Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor       faulty. But if otherwise—if regard springing from such sources is       unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often       described as arising on a first interview with its object, and       even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in       her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the       latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill       success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less       interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go       with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy       must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that       wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had       she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one       but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an       expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this       development. While the contents of the first letter remained in       her mind, she was all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham       should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for       money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared       incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an       attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and though       she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an       elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no       difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her       understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.        She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire,       that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that       Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody.       Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite,       as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections       had continually been fluctuating but never without an object. The       mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a       girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!        She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot       to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon       her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable       of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost       persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s       interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered       the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had       hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that       their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly       on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their       summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the       postscript of the last with trembling energy.— Though Lydia had       never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not       but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned       in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror,       Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth,       though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude;       and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating       to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as       soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried       Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for       us; was it so?”        “Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our       engagement. _That_ is all settled.”        “That is all settled;” repeated the other, as she ran into her       room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to       disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”        But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her       in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth       been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that       all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but       she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst       the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at       Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour,       however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile       having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be       done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the       morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could       have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to       Longbourn.     Chapter 47        “I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle,       as they drove from the town; “and really, upon serious       consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as       your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very       unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a       girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was       actually staying in his colonel’s family, that I am strongly       inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would       not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the       regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His       temptation is not adequate to the risk!”        “Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a       moment.        “Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your       uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency,       honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so       very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him       up, as to believe him capable of it?”        “Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other       neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so!       But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if       that had been the case?”        “In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute       proof that they are not gone to Scotland.”        “Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is       such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be       found on the Barnet road.”        “Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there,       though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional       purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on       either side; and it might strike them that they could be more       economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than       in Scotland.”        “But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must       their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His       most particular friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded       of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a       woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims       has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good       humour that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of       benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the       apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a       dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I       know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But       as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good.       Lydia has no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from       my father’s behaviour, from his indolence and the little       attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in       his family, that _he_ would do as little, and think as little       about it, as any father could do, in such a matter.”        “But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love       of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than       marriage?”        “It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied       Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of       decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But,       really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her       justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught to       think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a       twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and       vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most       idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in       her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton,       nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head.       She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and       talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it?       susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively       enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person       and address that can captivate a woman.”        “But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very       ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”        “Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever       might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of       such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane       knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that       he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has       neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful       as he is insinuating.”        “And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose       curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.        “I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the       other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you       yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke       of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality       towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at       liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about       the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss       Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved,       disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must       know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found       her.”        “But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what       you and Jane seem so well to understand?”        “Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and       saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel       Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I       returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or       fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I       related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our       knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any       one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him       should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that       Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her       eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be       in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such       a consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was       far enough from my thoughts.”        “When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason,       I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”        “Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on       either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you       must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be       thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready       enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near       Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months;       but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention;       and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and       wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the       regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her       favourites.”        It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could       be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this       interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could       detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From       Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the       keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval       of ease or forgetfulness.        They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one       night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day.       It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not       have been wearied by long expectations.        The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were       standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock;       and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise       that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their       whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first       pleasing earnest of their welcome.        Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty       kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running       down from her mother’s apartment, immediately met her.        Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears       filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether       anything had been heard of the fugitives.        “Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I       hope everything will be well.”        “Is my father in town?”        “Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”        “And have you heard from him often?”        “We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday       to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his       directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely       added that he should not write again till he had something of       importance to mention.”        “And my mother—how is she? How are you all?”        “My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are       greatly shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction       in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary       and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well.”        “But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much       you must have gone through!”        Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and       their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs.       Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to       by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and       aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles       and tears.        When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which       Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the       others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to       give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence       of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she still       expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would       bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain       their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.        Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few       minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly as might be       expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives       against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her       own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to       whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must       principally be owing.        “If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to       Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but       poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the       Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was       some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the       kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked       after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge       of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And       now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight       Wickham, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and       what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out       before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us,       brother, I do not know what we shall do.”        They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner,       after general assurances of his affection for her and all her       family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day,       and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering       Lydia.        “Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right       to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it       as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a       few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we know       that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not       let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town I       shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to       Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what       is to be done.”        “Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what       I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find       them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married       already, _make_ them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not       let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much       money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And,       above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a       dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and       have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms       in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that       I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not       to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me,       for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,       how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.”        But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest       endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation       to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with       her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left       her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in       the absence of her daughters.        Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no       real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not       attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence       enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited       at table, and judged it better that _one_ only of the household,       and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her       fears and solicitude on the subject.        In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who       had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make       their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other       from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably       calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss       of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself       incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than       usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress       enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of       grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:        “This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much       talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the       wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”        Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she       added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from       it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is       irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin;       that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and       that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the       undeserving of the other sex.”        Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much       oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console       herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before       them.        In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for       half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed       herself of the opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane       was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general       lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which       Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could       not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the       subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it       which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What       did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything       before the elopement took place? They must have seen them       together for ever.”        “Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some       partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him       any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive       and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure       us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone       to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened       his journey.”        “And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he       know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny       himself?”        “Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing       anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion       about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not       marrying—and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have       been misunderstood before.”        “And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you       entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”        “How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I       felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness       with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not       been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of       that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then       owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest       of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such       a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each       other, many weeks.”        “But not before they went to Brighton?”        “No, I believe not.”        “And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself?       Does he know his real character?”        “I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he       formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant.       And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he       left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false.”        “Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of       him, this could not have happened!”        “Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to       expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their       present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the       best intentions.”        “Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to       his wife?”        “He brought it with him for us to see.”        Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth.       These were the contents:        “My dear Harriet,       “You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help       laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I       am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess       with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man       in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy       without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send       them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it       will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign       my name ‘Lydia Wickham.’ What a good joke it will be! I can       hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not       keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I       hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will       dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I       shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you       would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown       before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel       Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.        “Your affectionate friend,       “LYDIA BENNET.”        “Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she       had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a       moment! But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the       subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade       her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor       father! how he must have felt it!”        “I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for       full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the       whole house in such confusion!”        “Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it       who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”        “I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a       time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I       endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid       I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what       might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties.”        “Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not       look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care       and anxiety upon yourself alone.”        “Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in       every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either       of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much,       that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt       Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away;       and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of       great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very       kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us,       and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they       should be of use to us.”        “She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps       she _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one       cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is       impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at       a distance, and be satisfied.”        She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father       had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his       daughter.        “He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place       where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if       anything could be made out from them. His principal object must       be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them       from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he       thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady’s removing       from one carriage into another might be remarked he meant to make       enquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house       the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make       enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out       the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other       designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be       gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had       difficulty in finding out even so much as this.”     Chapter 48        The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the       next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line       from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a       most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time       they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he       had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of _that_ they       would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only       for the letters before he set off.        When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving       constant information of what was going on, and their uncle       promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to       Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his       sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband’s       not being killed in a duel.        Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a       few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be       serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs.       Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of       freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and       always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening       them up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh       instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, she seldom       went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found       them.        All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three       months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared       to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues,       all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into       every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was the       wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out       that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness.       Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said,       believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister’s ruin       more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it,       became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come       when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before       entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained       some news of them.        Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife       received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he       had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come       to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and       Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory       information; and that he was now determined to enquire at all the       principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they       might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London,       before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not       expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was       eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that       Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London       and promised to write again very soon. There was also a       postscript to this effect:        “I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if       possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment,       whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be       likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself.       If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability       of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential       consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel       Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy       us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could       tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other       person.”        Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference       to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give       any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment       deserved. She had never heard of his having had any relations,       except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many       years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in       the ——shire might be able to give more information; and though       she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a       something to look forward to.        Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most       anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival       of letters was the grand object of every morning’s impatience.       Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be       communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some       news of importance.        But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived       for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins;       which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for       him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew       what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and       read it likewise. It was as follows:        “My dear Sir,       “I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation       in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are       now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a       letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs.       Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your       respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of       the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time       can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can       alleviate so severe a misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a       circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a       parent’s mind. The death of your daughter would have been a       blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be       lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte       informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your       daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence;       though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and       Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must       be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity,       at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to       be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins,       but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have       related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this       false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of       all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself       condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family?       And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with       augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for       had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your       sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to console       yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child       from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of       her own heinous offense.        “I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”        Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer       from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant       nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single       relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was       certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances       had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did       not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any       of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as       likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his       own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in       addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations, for it       had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a       very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than       a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at       Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour       were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to       conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard       them with horror. “A gamester!” she cried. “This is wholly       unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”        Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see       their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday.       Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours,       he had yielded to his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would       return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion       might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When       Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much       satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her       anxiety for his life had been before.        “What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried.       “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is       to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?”        As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that       she and the children should go to London, at the same time that       Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the       first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to       Longbourn.        Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and       her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the       world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them       by her niece; and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs.       Gardiner had formed, of their being followed by a letter from       him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her       return that could come from Pemberley.        The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse       for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore,       could be fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who       was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings,       was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she       could have borne the dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It       would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of       two.        When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual       philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in       the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had       taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had       courage to speak of it.        It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea,       that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on       her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured,       he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself?       It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”        “You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.        “You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so       prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how       much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered       by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.”        “Do you suppose them to be in London?”        “Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”        “And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.        “She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence       there will probably be of some duration.”        Then after a short silence he continued:        “Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice       to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some       greatness of mind.”        They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her       mother’s tea.        “This is a parade,” he cried, “which does one good; it gives such       an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will       sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as       much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty       runs away.”        “I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If _I_       should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”        “_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as       Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to       be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is       ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the       village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up       with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors       till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day       in a rational manner.”        Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to       cry.        “Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are       a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review       at the end of them.”     Chapter 49        Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were       walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the       housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to       call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead       of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to       Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but       I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I       took the liberty of coming to ask.”        “What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”        “Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you       know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He       has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”        Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech.       They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from       thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were       on the point of seeking him up stairs with their mother, when       they were met by the butler, who said:        “If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards       the little copse.”        Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall       once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was       deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of       the paddock.        Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as       Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for       breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out:        “Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”        “Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”        “Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?”        “What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the       letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”        Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.        “Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself       what it is about.”        “Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August_ 2.        “My dear Brother,       “At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such       as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon       after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out       in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till       we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen       them both—”           “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are           married!”        Elizabeth read on:        “I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find       there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to       perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your       side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is       required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement,       her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your       children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,       moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during       your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions       which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying       with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall       send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me       your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars,       that Mr. Wickham’s circumstances are not so hopeless as they are       generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that       respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money,       even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in       addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case,       you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole       of this business, I will immediately give directions to       Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be       the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore       stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care.       Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write       explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be       married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She       comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more       is determined on. Yours, etc.,        “EDW. GARDINER.”        “Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it       be possible that he will marry her?”        “Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said       her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”        “And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.        “No; but it must be done soon.”        Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time       before he wrote.        “Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write       immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a       case.”        “Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble       yourself.”        “I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”        And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the       house.        “And may I ask—” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must       be complied with.”        “Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”        “And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!”        “Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But       there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how       much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the       other, how am I ever to pay him.”        “Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”        “I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight       a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty       after I am gone.”        “That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred       to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to       remain! Oh! it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I       am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all       this.”        “No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a       farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to       think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.”        “Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be       repaid?”        Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought,       continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then       went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the       breakfast-room.        “And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as       they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ we       are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their       chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are       forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”        “I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he       certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for       her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing       him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like       it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have       more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?”        “If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,”       said Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our       sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for       them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness       of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her       home, and affording her their personal protection and       countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of       gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually       with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she       will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she       first sees my aunt!”        “We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,”       said Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His       consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is       come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will       steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly,       and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past       imprudence forgotten.”        “Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither       you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of       it.”        It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all       likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to       the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would       not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and,       without raising his head, coolly replied:        “Just as you please.”        “May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?”        “Take whatever you like, and get away.”        Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went       up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet:       one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight       preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet       could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr.       Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, her joy burst       forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She       was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever       been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter       would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her       felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.        “My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She       will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at       sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he       would manage everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear       Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write       to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run       down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay,       stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will       put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we       shall be together when we meet!”        Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the       violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the       obligations which Mr. Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all under.        “For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a       great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has       pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.”        “Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it       but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and       my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the       first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few       presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have a       daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was       only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter,       that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write       for me. We will settle with your father about the money       afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”        She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin,       and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful       orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her       to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s       delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother       was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes,       too, came into her head.        “I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and       tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come       back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and       order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I       am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here       comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss       Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of       punch to make merry at her wedding.”        Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received       her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this       folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with       freedom.        Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it       was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and       though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor       worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in       looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, she       felt all the advantages of what they had gained.     Chapter 50        Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life       that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an       annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his       wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had       he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been       indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now       be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of       the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband       might then have rested in its proper place.        He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to       anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his       brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out       the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as       soon as he could.        When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be       perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The       son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should       be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means       be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world,       but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years       after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event       had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be       saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband’s       love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their       income.        Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs.       Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be       divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents.       This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was now       to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in       acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful       acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed       most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect       approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil       the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before       supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his       daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to       himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten       pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them;       for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual       presents in money which passed to her through her mother’s hands,       Lydia’s expenses had been very little within that sum.        That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side,       too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present       was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When       the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in       seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former       indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory       in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged       to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his       brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.        The good news spread quickly through the house, and with       proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in       the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been       more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come       upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded       from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But there was much to       be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her       well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old       ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this       change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery       was considered certain.        It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on       this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table,       and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a       damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been       the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on       the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran       wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new       carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the       neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and,       without knowing or considering what their income might be,       rejected many as deficient in size and importance.        “Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit       it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger;       but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten       miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”        Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the       servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her:       “Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your       son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into       _one_ house in this neighbourhood they shall never have       admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by       receiving them at Longbourn.”        A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was       firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with       amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea       to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should       receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion.       Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be       carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse       his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would       scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She       was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must       reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at       her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took       place.        Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the       distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted       with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so       shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might       hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who       were not immediately on the spot.        She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There       were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently       depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge       of a sister’s frailty would have mortified her so much—not,       however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to       herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between       them. Had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable       terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect       himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now       be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a       man whom he so justly scorned.        From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink.       The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself       of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation       survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved;       she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous       of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by       it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance       of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have       been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should       meet.        What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that       the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago,       would now have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was       as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex;       but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph.        She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in       disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding       and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her       wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of       both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been       softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement,       information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received       benefit of greater importance.        But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude       what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different       tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon       to be formed in their family.        How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable       independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent       happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together       because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could       easily conjecture.        Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet’s       acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his       eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family; and       concluded with entreaties that the subject might never be       mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was       to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the       militia.        “It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon       as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me,       in considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable,       both on his account and my niece’s. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention       to go into the regulars; and among his former friends, there are       still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He       has the promise of an ensigncy in General ——’s regiment, now       quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from       this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among       different people, where they may each have a character to       preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to       Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and       to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr.       Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment,       for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the       trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in       Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his       information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he       has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will       be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless       they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.       Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before       she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully       remembered to you and her mother.—Yours, etc.,        “E. GARDINER.”        Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s       removal from the ——shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But       Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being       settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure       and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her       plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe       disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia       should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with       everybody, and had so many favourites.        “She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite       shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young       men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so       pleasant in General ——’s regiment.”        His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being       admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,       received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,       who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings       and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by       her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so       mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as       they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they       thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the       satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her       married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to       the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore,       he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that       as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to       Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should       consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own       inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object       of her wishes.     Chapter 51        Their sister’s wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt       for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was       sent to meet them at ——, and they were to return in it by       dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets,       and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would       have attended herself, had _she_ been the culprit, and was       wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.        They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to       receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the       carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably       grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.        Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown       open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards,       embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with       an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and       wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of       their happiness.        Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was       not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity;       and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young       couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was       disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia       still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned       from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when       at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took       notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a       laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.        Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his       manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his       marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy       address, while he claimed their relationship, would have       delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite       equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within       herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an       impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of       the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of       colour.        There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could       neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to       sit near Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in       that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very       unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have       the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was       recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects       which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.        “Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went       away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been       things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went       away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came       back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.”        Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth       looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw       anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,       “Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I       was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in       his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let       down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let       my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the       ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”        Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the       room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through       the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough       to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right       hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take       your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married       woman.”        It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that       embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first.       Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs.       Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to       hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the       mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of       being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.        “Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the       breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a       charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope       they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton.       That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we       did not all go.”        “Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I       don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”        “Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all       things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us.       We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there       will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for       them all.”        “I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.        “And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my       sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them       before the winter is over.”        “I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I       do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.”        Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr.       Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he       was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.        No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so       short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with       her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These       parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even       more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.        Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had       expected to find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had       scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the       reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the       strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have       wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope       with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was       rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were       the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of       having a companion.        Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on       every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He       did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill       more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the       country.        One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with       her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:        “Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe.       You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it.       Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?”        “No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too       little said on the subject.”        “La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We       were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s       lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should       all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to       go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well,       Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid,       you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I       should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the       time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she       was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in       ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I       longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”        “Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would       never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my       uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with       them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of       doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme,       or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the       Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came       to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that       horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get       together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did       not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we       were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But,       luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all       set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he _had_ been       prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy       might have done as well.”        “Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.        “Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But       gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word       about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say?       It was to be such a secret!”        “If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the       subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”        “Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;       “we will ask you no questions.”        “Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell       you all, and then Wickham would be angry.”        On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out       of her power, by running away.        But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at       least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had       been at her sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly       among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least       temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and       wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none.       Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the       noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such       suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short       letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had       dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been       intended.        “You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must       be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and       (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have       been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me       understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in       the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must       endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.”        “Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she       finished the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in       an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and       stratagems to find it out.”        Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to       Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was       glad of it;—till it appeared whether her enquiries would receive       any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.     Chapter 52        Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her       letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in       possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where she       was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the       benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter       convinced her that it did not contain a denial.        “Gracechurch Street, _Sept_. 6.        “My dear Niece,        “I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole       morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing       will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself       surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.       Don’t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know       that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_       side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my       impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing       but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed       him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and       ignorant, I must be more explicit.        “On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had       a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with       him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my       curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have       been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where       your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked       with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I can       collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and       came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive       professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that       Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it       impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in       him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and       confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his       private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for       itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and       endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself.       If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never disgrace       him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to       discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which       was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another       reason for his resolving to follow us.        “There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago       governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on       some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She       then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since       maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he       knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for       intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or       three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would       not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption,       for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham       indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had       she been able to receive them into her house, they would have       taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind       friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in —— street.       He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His       first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her       to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her       friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,       offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found       Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared       for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not       hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some       time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were       her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and       expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with       Wickham, he easily learnt had never been _his_ design. He       confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of       some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not       to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia’s flight on her own       folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and       as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about       it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew       he should have nothing to live on.        “Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once.       Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have       been able to do something for him, and his situation must have       been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this       question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more       effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country.       Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof       against the temptation of immediate relief.        “They met several times, for there was much to be discussed.       Wickham of course wanted more than he could get; but at length       was reduced to be reasonable.        “Everything being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy’s next step       was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in       Gracechurch street the evening before I came home. But Mr.       Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further       enquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town       the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person       whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore       readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the       former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was       only known that a gentleman had called on business.        “On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at       home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk       together.        “They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not       all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was       sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I       fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character,       after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times,       but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did       not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be       thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most       readily have settled the whole.        “They battled it together for a long time, which was more than       either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at       last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed       to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having       the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain;       and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great       pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him       of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due.       But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at       most.        “You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the       young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to       considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in       addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his commission       purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone,       was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his       reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s       character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had       been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth       in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody’s_       reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all       this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured       that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him       credit for _another interest_ in the affair.        “When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends,       who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he       should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and       all money matters were then to receive the last finish.        “I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation       which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least       it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and       Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was exactly       what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would       not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour       while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter       last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a       piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no       fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious       manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had       done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If       she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not       listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my       dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with       her.        “Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,       attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to       leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry       with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying       (what I was never bold enough to say before) how much I like him.       His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as       when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all       please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and       _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach him. I       thought him very sly;—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But       slyness seems the fashion.        “Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do       not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be       quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton,       with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very thing.        “But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this       half hour.        “Yours, very sincerely,       “M. GARDINER.”        The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of       spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure       or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled       suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might       have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had       feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be       probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain       of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be       true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on       himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a       research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman       whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to       meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe,       the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name       it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a       girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did       whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly       checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her       vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection       for her—for a woman who had already refused him—as able to       overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against       relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind       of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure,       done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a       reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch       of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been       wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it;       and though she would not place herself as his principal       inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality       for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of       mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly       painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who       could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia,       her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she       grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged,       every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself       she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause       of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of       himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and       again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even       sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding       how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that       affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.        She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one’s       approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was       overtaken by Wickham.        “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?”       said he, as he joined her.        “You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not       follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”        “I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good       friends; and now we are better.”        “True. Are the others coming out?”        “I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage       to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and       aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”        She replied in the affirmative.        “I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be       too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle.       And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she       was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my       name to you.”        “Yes, she did.”        “And what did she say?”        “That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not       turned out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things       are strangely misrepresented.”        “Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had       silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:        “I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each       other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”        “Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said       Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at       this time of year.”        “Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I       thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”        “Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”        “And do you like her?”        “Very much.”        “I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within       this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very       promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out       well.”        “I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”        “Did you go by the village of Kympton?”        “I do not recollect that we did.”        “I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have       had. A most delightful place!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would       have suited me in every respect.”        “How should you have liked making sermons?”        “Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my       duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought       not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing       for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have       answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you       ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”        “I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that       it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the       present patron.”        “You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from       the first, you may remember.”        “I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was       not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you       actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and       that the business had been compromised accordingly.”        “You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may       remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of       it.”        They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked       fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to       provoke him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:        “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not       let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be       always of one mind.”        She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry,       though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.     Chapter 53        Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation       that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear       sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was       pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.        The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet       was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no       means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle,       was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.        “Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”        “Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”        “Write to me very often, my dear.”        “As often as I can. But you know married women have never much       time for writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have       nothing else to do.”        Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s.       He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.        “He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were       out of the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and       makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even       Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”        The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several       days.        “I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as       parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”        “This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a       daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied       that your other four are single.”        “It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is       married, but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so       far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so       soon.”        But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was       shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of       hope, by an article of news which then began to be in       circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders       to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in       a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was       quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and shook       her head by turns.        “Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for       Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the       better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us,       you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But,       however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes       it. And who knows what _may_ happen? But that is nothing to us.       You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word       about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”        “You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was       in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself       on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was       certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very       likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me,       on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got       three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”        Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without       changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his       name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together,       she said:        “I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the       present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don’t       imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the       moment, because I felt that I _should_ be looked at. I do assure       you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or       pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we       shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of _myself_, but       I dread other people’s remarks.”        Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him       in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming       there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she       still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the       greater probability of his coming there _with_ his friend’s       permission, or being bold enough to come without it.        “Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man       cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without       raising all this speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.”        In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be       her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could       easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were       more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them.        The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their       parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.        “As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet,       “you will wait on him of course.”        “No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised,       if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it       ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand       again.”        His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an       attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his       returning to Netherfield.        “’Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,” said he. “If he wants our       society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not       spend _my_ hours in running after my neighbours every time they       go away and come back again.”        “Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do       not wait on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him       to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the       Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there       will be just room at table for him.”        Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her       husband’s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that       her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it,       before _they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,—        “I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her       sister. “It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect       indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually       talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one       can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be,       when his stay at Netherfield is over!”        “I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth;       “but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the       usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied       me, because you have always so much.”        Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of       servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the       period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as       it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their       invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on       the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw       him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride       towards the house.        Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane       resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy       her mother, went to the window—she looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with       him, and sat down again by her sister.        “There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it       be?”        “Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do       not know.”        “La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be       with him before. Mr. what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”        “Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any       friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure;       but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.”        Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but       little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the       awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost       for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both       sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and       of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her       dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only       as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either of them.       But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be       suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew       Mrs. Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment       towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she       had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own       more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole       family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she       regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at       least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her       astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to       Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to       what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in       Derbyshire.        The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half       a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added       lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that       his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would       not be secure.        “Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be       early enough for expectation.”        She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without       daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them       to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the       door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than       Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her colour       increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a       propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of       resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.        Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and       sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not       often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He       looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been       used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at       Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother’s presence be       what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not       an improbable, conjecture.        Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short       period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was       received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her       two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold       and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his       friend.        Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the       latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from       irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful       degree by a distinction so ill applied.        Darcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a       question which she could not answer without confusion, said       scarcely anything. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the       reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire.       There he had talked to her friends, when he could not to herself.       But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his       voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of       curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found       him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object       but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please,       than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was       disappointed, and angry with herself for being so.        “Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he       come?”        She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself;       and to him she had hardly courage to speak.        She enquired after his sister, but could do no more.        “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs.       Bennet.        He readily agreed to it.        “I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People       _did_ say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas;       but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have       happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is       married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you       have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It       was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put       in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham,       Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said       of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was       my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to       make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”        Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations.       Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked,       therefore, she could not tell.        “It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well       married,” continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr.       Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me.       They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it       seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His       regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving       the ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank       Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so many as he       deserves.”        Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such       misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew       from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else       had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley whether he       meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he       believed.        “When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her       mother, “I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you       please on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy       to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you.”        Elizabeth’s misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious       attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had       flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would       be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant,       she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself       amends for moments of such painful confusion.        “The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more       to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no       pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me       never see either one or the other again!”        Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no       compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from       observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the       admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had       spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be       giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she       had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though       not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should       be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she       talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that       she did not always know when she was silent.        When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of       her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine       at Longbourn in a few days time.        “You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for       when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family       dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you       see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did       not come back and keep your engagement.”        Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said       something of his concern at having been prevented by business.       They then went away.        Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and       dine there that day; but, though she alway'

'The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Arthur Conan Doyle  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.  Title: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes  Author: Arthur Conan Doyle  Release Date: November 29, 2002 [eBook #1661] [Most recently updated: May 20, 2019]  Language: English  Character set encoding: UTF-8  Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer and Jose Menendez  *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ***  cover     The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes  by Arthur Conan Doyle   Contents     I.     A Scandal in Bohemia    II.    The Red-Headed League    III.   A Case of Identity    IV.    The Boscombe Valley Mystery    V.     The Five Orange Pips    VI.    The Man with the Twisted Lip    VII.   The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle    VIII.  The Adventure of the Speckled Band    IX.    The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb    X.     The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor    XI.    The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet    XII.   The Adventure of the Copper Beeches     I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA   I.  To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.  I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.  One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.  His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.  “Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”  “Seven!” I answered.  “Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.”  “Then, how do you know?”  “I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?”  “My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.”  He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.  “It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”  I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.”  “Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”  “Frequently.”  “How often?”  “Well, some hundreds of times.”  “Then how many are there?”  “How many? I don’t know.”  “Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”  The note was undated, and without either signature or address.  “There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.”  “This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it means?”  “I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?”  I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written.  “The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.”  “Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”  I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.  “What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.  “The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”  “Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.  “The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.  “Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”  As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.  “A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”  “I think that I had better go, Holmes.”  “Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”  “But your client—”  “Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”  A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap.  “Come in!” said Holmes.  A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.  “You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.  “Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?”  “You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.”  I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.”  The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.”  “I promise,” said Holmes.  “And I.”  “You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.”  “I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.  “The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.”  “I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes.  Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.  “If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”  The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”  “Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”  “But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come _incognito_ from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”  “Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.  “The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”  “Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.  “Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.”  “Precisely so. But how—”  “Was there a secret marriage?”  “None.”  “No legal papers or certificates?”  “None.”  “Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?”  “There is the writing.”  “Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”  “My private note-paper.”  “Stolen.”  “My own seal.”  “Imitated.”  “My photograph.”  “Bought.”  “We were both in the photograph.”  “Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.”  “I was mad—insane.”  “You have compromised yourself seriously.”  “I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”  “It must be recovered.”  “We have tried and failed.”  “Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”  “She will not sell.”  “Stolen, then.”  “Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result.”  “No sign of it?”  “Absolutely none.”  Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.  “But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully.  “Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”  “To ruin me.”  “But how?”  “I am about to be married.”  “So I have heard.”  “To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.”  “And Irene Adler?”  “Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go—none.”  “You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”  “I am sure.”  “And why?”  “Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”  “Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?”  “Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”  “Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”  “Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”  “Then, as to money?”  “You have _carte blanche_.”  “Absolutely?”  “I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.”  “And for present expenses?”  The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table.  “There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said.  Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it to him.  “And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.  “Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”  Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the photograph a cabinet?”  “It was.”  “Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you.”   II.  At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head.  It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.  “Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.  “What is it?”  “It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.”  “I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.”  “Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a _bijou_ villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest.  “I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to.”  “And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.  “Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign.  “This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation.”  “I am following you closely,” I answered.  “I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached—evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.  “He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, ‘Drive like the devil,’ he shouted, ‘first to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!’  “Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.  “‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’  “This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind.  “My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me.  “‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’  “‘What then?’ I asked.  “‘Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’  “I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion.”  “This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “and what then?”  “Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. ‘I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements.”  “Which are?”  “Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the bell. “I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation.”  “I shall be delighted.”  “You don’t mind breaking the law?”  “Not in the least.”  “Nor running a chance of arrest?”  “Not in a good cause.”  “Oh, the cause is excellent!”  “Then I am your man.”  “I was sure that I might rely on you.”  “But what is it you wish?”  “When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you. Now,” he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, “I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.”  “And what then?”  “You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?”  “I am to be neutral?”  “To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window.”  “Yes.”  “You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.”  “Yes.”  “And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?”  “Entirely.”  “It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. “It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?”  “I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street.”  “Precisely.”  “Then you may entirely rely on me.”  “That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare for the new role I have to play.”  He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.  It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’ succinct description, but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths.  “You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house, “this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?”  “Where, indeed?”  “It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman’s dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her.”  “Where, then?”  “Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house.”  “But it has twice been burgled.”  “Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”  “But how will you look?”  “I will not look.”  “What then?”  “I will get her to show me.”  “But she will refuse.”  “She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter.”  As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street.  “Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked.  “He is dead,” cried several voices.  “No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be gone before you can get him to hospital.”  “He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.”  “He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?”  “Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!”  Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from injuring another.  Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant maids—joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road.  “You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been better. It is all right.”  “You have the photograph?”  “I know where it is.”  “And how did you find out?”  “She showed me, as I told you she would.”  “I am still in the dark.”  “I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.”  “I guessed as much.”  “Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.”  “That also I could fathom.”  “Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance.”  “How did that help you?”  “It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all.”  “And now?” I asked.  “Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own hands.”  “And when will you call?”  “At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without delay.”  We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:  “Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”  There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.  “I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been.”   III.  I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.  “You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.  “Not yet.”  “But you have hopes?”  “I have hopes.”  “Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”  “We must have a cab.”  “No, my brougham is waiting.”  “Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once more for Briony Lodge.  “Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.  “Married! When?”  “Yesterday.”  “But to whom?”  “To an English lawyer named Norton.”  “But she could not love him.”  “I am in hopes that she does.”  “And why in hopes?”  “Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty’s plan.”  “It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.  The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.  “I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze.  “Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.”  “What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”  “Never to return.”  “And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”  “We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:      “MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very well. You took     me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a     suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I     began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had     been told that, if the King employed an agent, it would certainly     be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you     made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became     suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old     clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself.     Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the     freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,     ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came     down just as you departed.      “Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was     really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.     Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for     the Temple to see my husband.      “We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so     formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you     call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in     peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do     what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly     wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a     weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might     take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to     possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,       “Very truly yours,      “IRENE NORTON, _née_ ADLER.”   “What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”  “From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more successful conclusion.”  “On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”  “I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”  “I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring—” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.  “Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said Holmes.  “You have but to name it.”  “This photograph!”  The King stared at him in amazement.  “Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”  “I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good morning.” He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.  And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of _the_ woman.     II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE    I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the  autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very  stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an  apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled  me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.  “You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.  “I was afraid that you were engaged.”  “So I am. Very much so.”  “Then I can wait in the next room.”  “Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”  The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.  “Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.”  “Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.  “You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination.”  “A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”  “You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”  The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.  I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.  Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”  Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.  “How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”  “Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.”  “Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”  “I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.”  “Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”  “What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk?”  “Well, but China?”  “The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.”  Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.”  “I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. ‘_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_,’ you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”  “Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”  I took the paper from him and read as follows:  “TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of £ 4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”   “What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement.  Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.”  “It is _The Morning Chronicle_ of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”  “Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”  “Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business.”  “What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.  “His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?”  “Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an _employé_ who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement.”  “Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”  “He is still with you, I presume?”  “Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place clean—that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.  “The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:  “‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’  “‘Why that?’ I asks.  “‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.’  “‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.  “‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes open.  “‘Never.’  “‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’  “‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.  “‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’  “Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.  “‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.  “‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.’  “‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’  “‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’  “Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.  “I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were—straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office.”  “Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting statement.”  “There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.  “‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.’  “‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.  “‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.  “‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’  “I answered that I had not.  “His face fell immediately.  “‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’  “My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all right.  “‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’  “‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I.  “‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to look after that for you.’  “‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.  “‘Ten to two.’  “Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up.  “‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’  “‘Is £ 4 a week.’  “‘And the work?’  “‘Is purely nominal.’  “‘What do you call purely nominal?’  “‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’  “‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said I.  “‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’  “‘And the work?’  “‘Is to copy out the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. There is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’  “‘Certainly,’ I answered.  “‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.  “Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope’s Court.  “Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me.  “This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it.  “Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”  “To an end?”  “Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”  He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion:  “THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890.”   Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.  “I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”  “No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?”  “I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.  “‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’  “‘What, the red-headed man?’  “‘Yes.’  “‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’  “‘Where could I find him?’  “‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’  “I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”  “And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.  “I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you.”  “And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.”  “Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a week.”  “As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £ 30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”  “No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds.”  “We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement—how long had he been with you?”  “About a month then.”  “How did he come?”  “In answer to an advertisement.”  “Was he the only applicant?”  “No, I had a dozen.”  “Why did you pick him?”  “Because he was handy and would come cheap.”  “At half wages, in fact.”  “Yes.”  “What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”  “Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”  Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”  “Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad.”  “Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?”  “Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”  “And has your business been attended to in your absence?”  “Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.”  “That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”  “Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all?”  “I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.”  “As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”  “What are you going to do, then?” I asked.  “To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.  “Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”  “I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”  “Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!”  We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.  “Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the Strand.”  “Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.  “Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before.”  “Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.”  “Not him.”  “What then?”  “The knees of his trousers.”  “And what did you see?”  “What I expected to see.”  “Why did you beat the pavement?”  “My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”  The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted.  “Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”  My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.  “You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.  “Yes, it would be as well.”  “And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.”  “Why serious?”  “A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.”  “At what time?”  “Ten will be early enough.”  “I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”  “Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.  I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the _Encyclopædia_ down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.  It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.  “Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.”  “We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”  “I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.  “You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force.”  “Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber.”  “I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some £ 30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.”  “John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.”  “I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”  Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.  “We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”  We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.  “You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern and gazed about him.  “Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.  “I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”  The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.  “We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present.”  “It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”  “Your French gold?”  “Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject.”  “Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”  “And sit in the dark?”  “I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a _partie carrée_, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”  I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.  “They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?”  “I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”  “Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.”  What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.  At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.  Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.  “It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”  Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.  “It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at all.”  “So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”  “There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.  “Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.”  “And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”  “You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”  “I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’”  “All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?”  “That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.  “Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.”  “I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”  “You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the _Encyclopædia_, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £ 4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.”  “But how could you guess what the motive was?”  “Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar—something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.  “So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”  “And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked.  “Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”  “You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”  “It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so.”  “And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.  He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he remarked. “‘_L’homme c’est rien—l’œuvre c’est tout_,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”     III. A CASE OF IDENTITY   “My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most _outré_ results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.”  “And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic.”  “A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.”  I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so,” I said. “Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here”—I picked up the morning paper from the ground—“let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. ‘A husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude.”  “Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,” said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example.”  He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.  “Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers.”  “And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger.  “It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems.”  “And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with interest.  “Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.”  He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell.  “I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. “Oscillation upon the pavement always means an _affaire de cœur_. She would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts.”  As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.  “Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?”  “I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the letters are without looking.” Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve heard about me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how could you know all that?”  “Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?”  “I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I’m not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.”  “Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.  Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said, “for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank—that is, my father—took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you.”  “Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since the name is different.”  “Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself.”  “And your mother is alive?”  “Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father’s death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got £ 4700 for the goodwill and interest, which wasn’t near as much as father could have got if he had been alive.”  I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.  “Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come out of the business?”  “Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.”  “You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about £ 60.”  “I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as long as I live at home I don’t wish to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.”  “You have made your position very clear to me,” said Holmes. “This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.”  A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. “I met him first at the gasfitters’ ball,” she said. “They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all father’s friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel.”  “I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr. Windibank came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.”  “Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way.”  “I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel.”  “Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more.”  “No?”  “Well, you know father didn’t like anything of the sort. He wouldn’t have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet.”  “But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?”  “Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for father to know.”  “Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?”  “Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street—and—”  “What office?”  “That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.”  “Where did he live, then?”  “He slept on the premises.”  “And you don’t know his address?”  “No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.”  “Where did you address your letters, then?”  “To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of.”  “It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?”  “He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare.”  “Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned to France?”  “Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn’t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn’t want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding.”  “It missed him, then?”  “Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived.”  “Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?”  “Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, near King’s Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him.”  “It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said Holmes.  “Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it.”  “Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?”  “Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened.”  “But you have no notion as to what it could have been?”  “None.”  “One more question. How did your mother take the matter?”  “She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again.”  “And your father? Did you tell him?”  “Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can’t sleep a wink at night.” She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob heavily into it.  “I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life.”  “Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”  “I fear not.”  “Then what has happened to him?”  “You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can spare.”  “I advertised for him in last Saturday’s _Chronicle_,” said she. “Here is the slip and here are four letters from him.”  “Thank you. And your address?”  “No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”  “Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand. Where is your father’s place of business?”  “He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of Fenchurch Street.”  “Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life.”  “You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back.”  For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.  Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.  “Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.”  “You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me,” I remarked.  “Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.”  “Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.”  Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.  “’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.”  “It surprised me.”  “But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry.”  “And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend’s incisive reasoning.  “I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?”  I held the little printed slip to the light. “Missing,” it said, “on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing,” &c, &c.  “That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued, glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.”  “They are typewritten,” I remarked.  “Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it conclusive.”  “Of what?”  “My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case?”  “I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted.”  “No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim.”  I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.  I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.  A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o’clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the _dénouement_ of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.  “Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.  “Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”  “No, no, the mystery!” I cried.  “Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.”  “Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?”  The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap at the door.  “This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”  The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.  “Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o’clock?”  “Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”  “On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”  Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said.  “It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the ‘r.’ There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious.”  “We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.  “And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the ‘e’s’ slurred and the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well.”  Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it.”  “Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. “I let you know, then, that I have caught him!”  “What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.  “Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes suavely. “There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That’s right! Sit down and let us talk it over.”  Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. “It—it’s not actionable,” he stammered.  “I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.”  The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.  “The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,” said he, “and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself.”  “It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought that she would have been so carried away.”  “Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl’s affections from turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady’s mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!”  Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face.  “It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but if you are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint.”  “The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, “yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man’s face, “it is not part of my duties to my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to—” He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.  “There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more. “That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest.”  “I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,” I remarked.  “Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction.”  “And how did you verify them?”  “Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect with that of their employé, James Windibank. _Voilà tout_!”  “And Miss Sutherland?”  “If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’ There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.”     IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY   We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:  “Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15.”  “What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will you go?”  “I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present.”  “Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ cases.”  “I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour.”  My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.  “It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”  We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.  “Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.  “Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”  “The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult.”  “That sounds a little paradoxical.”  “But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man.”  “It is a murder, then?”  “Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a very few words.  “Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts.  “On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive.  “From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.  “The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son’s gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of ‘wilful murder’ having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police-court.”  “I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.”  “Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes thoughtfully. “It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home.”  “I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of this case.”  “There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered, laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that.”  “How on earth—”  “My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my _métier_, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering.”  “What are they?”  “It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner’s jury.”  “It was a confession,” I ejaculated.  “No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”  “Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious remark.”  “On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty one.”  I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,” I remarked.  “So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”  “What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”  “It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it for yourself.”  He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:  “Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave evidence as follows: ‘I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of “Cooee!” which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner’s lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.’  “The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died?  “Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a rat.  “The Coroner: What did you understand by that?  “Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious.  “The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel?  “Witness: I should prefer not to answer.  “The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.  “Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.  “The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.  “Witness: I must still refuse.  “The Coroner: I understand that the cry of ‘Cooee’ was a common signal between you and your father?  “Witness: It was.  “The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?  “Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.  “A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?  “Witness: Nothing definite.  “The Coroner: What do you mean?  “Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was gone.  “‘Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?’  “‘Yes, it was gone.’  “  ‘You cannot say what it was?’  “‘No, I had a feeling something was there.’  “‘How far from the body?’  “‘A dozen yards or so.’  “‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’  “‘About the same.’  “‘Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of it?’  “‘Yes, but with my back towards it.’  “This concluded the examination of the witness.”  “I see,” said I as I glanced down the column, “that the coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father’s dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the son.”  Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat. “Both you and the coroner have been at some pains,” said he, “to single out the very strongest points in the young man’s favour. Don’t you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so _outré_ as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes.”  It was nearly four o’clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us.  “I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea. “I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime.”  “It was very nice and complimentary of you,” Holmes answered. “It is entirely a question of barometric pressure.”  Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said.  “How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night.”  Lestrade laughed indulgently. “You have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions from the newspapers,” he said. “The case is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can’t refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door.”  He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.  “Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally, with a woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, “I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn’t do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.”  “I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You may rely upon my doing all that I can.”  “But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?”  “I think that it is very probable.”  “There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. “You hear! He gives me hopes.”  Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions,” he said.  “But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it.”  “In what way?” asked Holmes.  “It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and—and—well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them.”  “And your father?” asked Holmes. “Was he in favour of such a union?”  “No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of it.” A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.  “Thank you for this information,” said he. “May I see your father if I call to-morrow?”  “I am afraid the doctor won’t allow it.”  “The doctor?”  “Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria.”  “Ha! In Victoria! That is important.”  “Yes, at the mines.”  “Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money.”  “Yes, certainly.”  “Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me.”  “You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent.”  “I will, Miss Turner.”  “I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.” She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.  “I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade with dignity after a few minutes’ silence. “Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel.”  “I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said Holmes. “Have you an order to see him in prison?”  “Yes, but only for you and me.”  “Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?”  “Ample.”  “Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours.”  I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man’s story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon’s deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes’ attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade’s opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes’ insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence.  It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.  “The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down. “It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy.”  “And what did you learn from him?”  “Nothing.”  “Could he throw no light?”  “None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart.”  “I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner.”  “Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered.”  “But if he is innocent, who has done it?”  “Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry ‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow.”  There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.  “There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of.”  “An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.  “About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free.”  “Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.  “Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him.”  “Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner’s daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?”  “We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade, winking at me. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies.”  “You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very hard to tackle the facts.”  “Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of,” replied Lestrade with some warmth.  “And that is—”  “That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine.”  “Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing. “But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left.”  “Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes’ request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son’s, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.  Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.  The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner’s dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.  “What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.  “I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth—”  “Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet.” He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.  “It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked, returning to his natural manner. “I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.”  It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood.  “This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out. “The murder was done with it.”  “I see no marks.”  “There are none.”  “How do you know, then?”  “The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.”  “And the murderer?”  “Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search.”  Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he said. “Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury.”  “_Nous verrons_,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your own method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train.”  “And leave your case unfinished?”  “No, finished.”  “But the mystery?”  “It is solved.”  “Who was the criminal, then?”  “The gentleman I describe.”  “But who is he?”  “Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighbourhood.”  Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said, “and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”  “All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.”  Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position.  “Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared “just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’t know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me expound.”   “Pray do so.”  “Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy’s narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry ‘Cooee!’ before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son’s ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true.”  “What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”  “Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But ‘Cooee’ is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia.”  “What of the rat, then?”  Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. “This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said. “I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand over part of the map. “What do you read?”  “ARAT,” I read.  “And now?” He raised his hand.  “BALLARAT.”  “Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.”  “It is wonderful!” I exclaimed.  “It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which, granting the son’s statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”  “Certainly.”  “And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly wander.”  “Quite so.”  “Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal.”  “But how did you gain them?”  “You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.”  “His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces.”  “Yes, they were peculiar boots.”  “But his lameness?”  “The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped—he was lame.”  “But his left-handedness.”  “You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam.”  “And the cigar-holder?”  “I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife.”  “Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is—”  “Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.  The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.  “Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my note?”  “Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal.”  “I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”  “And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.  “Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is so. I know all about McCarthy.”  The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”  “I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.  “I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested.”  “It may not come to that,” said Holmes.  “What?”  “I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however.”  “I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.”  Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”  “It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.  “You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.  “It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.  “One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.  “I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.  “‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the arm; ‘we’ll be as good as a family to you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don’t—it’s a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there’s always a policeman within hail.’  “Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.  “His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.  “When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred.”  “Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. “I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation.”  “I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”  “In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us.”  “Farewell, then,” said the old man solemnly. “Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine.” Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.  “God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence. “Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter’s words, and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’”  James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past.     V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS   When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years ’82 and ’90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up.  The year ’87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British barque _Sophy Anderson_, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time—a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.  It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.  “Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”  “Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage visitors.”  “A client, then?”  “If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady’s.”  Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.  “Come in!” said he.  The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety.  “I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber.”  “Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the south-west, I see.”  “Yes, from Horsham.”  “That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive.”  “I have come for advice.”  “That is easily got.”  “And help.”  “That is not always so easy.”  “I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.”  “Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”  “He said that you could solve anything.”  “He said too much.”  “That you are never beaten.”  “I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a woman.”  “But what is that compared with the number of your successes?”  “It is true that I have been generally successful.”  “Then you may be so with me.”  “I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as to your case.”  “It is no ordinary one.”  “None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.”  “And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my own family.”  “You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important.”  The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze.  “My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair.  “You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence.  “My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own brother.  “He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such a room.  “One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’  “‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.  “‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.  “‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’  “I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.  “‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’  “I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.  “Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some £ 14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.”  “One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.”  “The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2nd.”  “Thank you. Pray proceed.”  “When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’ written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.  “Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of ’85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself.  “‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.  “My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.  “He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them?’  “‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.  “‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.  “‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must be those that are destroyed.’  “‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come from?’  “‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.  “‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’  “‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.  “‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’  “‘Then let me do so?’  “‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’  “It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.  “On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.  “In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another.  “It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”  The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.  “This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’”  “What have you done?” asked Holmes.  “Nothing.”  “Nothing?”  “To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against.”  “Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”  “I have seen the police.”  “Ah!”  “But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.”  Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he cried.  “They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me.”  “Has he come with you to-night?”  “No. His orders were to stay in the house.”  Again Holmes raved in the air.  “Why did you come to me?” he said, “and, above all, why did you not come at once?”  “I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.”  “It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?”  “There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”  Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical notices:  “4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.  “7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain of St. Augustine.  “9th. McCauley cleared.  “10th. John Swain cleared.  “12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”  “Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and act.”  “What shall I do?”  “There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”  “Entirely.”  “Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”  “I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. “You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.”  “Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?”  “By train from Waterloo.”  “It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”  “I am armed.”  “That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.”  “I shall see you at Horsham, then?”  “No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.”  “Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.” He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements—blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.  Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.  “I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have had none more fantastic than this.”  “Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”  “Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”  “But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?”  “There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.  “Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this unhappy family?”  Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and encyclopædias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion.”  “Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis.”  Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the _American Encyclopædia_ which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?”  “The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London.”  “From East London. What do you deduce from that?”  “They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”  “Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything?”  “A greater distance to travel.”  “But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”  “Then I do not see the point.”  “There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer.”  “It is possible.”  “More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay.”  “Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?”  “The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society.”  “But of what society?”  “Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice—“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”  “I never have.”  Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,” said he presently:  “‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the United States government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’  “You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered.”  “Then the page we have seen—”  “Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the pips to A, B, and C’—that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow men.”  It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.  “You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.”  “What steps will you take?” I asked.  “It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all.”  “You will not go there first?”  “No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee.”  As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.  “Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”  “Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.  “My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account:  “‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’”  We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him.  “That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.  “They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!”  “To the police?”  “No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before.”  All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.  “You are hungry,” I remarked.  “Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast.”  “Nothing?”  “Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”  “And how have you succeeded?”  “Well.”  “You have a clue?”  “I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!”  “What do you mean?”  He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Barque _Lone Star_, Savannah, Georgia.”  “That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him.”  “And who is this Captain Calhoun?”  “The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”  “How did you trace it, then?”  He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names.  “I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the _Lone Star_, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union.”  “Texas, I think.”  “I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American origin.”  “What then?”  “I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque _Lone Star_ was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London.”  “Yes?”  “The _Lone Star_ had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight.”  “What will you do, then?”  “Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder.”  There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the _Lone Star_ of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the _Lone Star_.     VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP   Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.  One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.  “A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”  I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.  We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.  “You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried; “I do so want a little help.”  “Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”  “I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse.  “It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?”  “Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!”  It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?  It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?  There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.  But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.  Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.  As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.  “Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”  There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.  “My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”  “Nearly eleven.”  “Of what day?”  “Of Friday, June 19th.”  “Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.  “I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”  “So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?”  “Yes, I have one waiting.”  “Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”  I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.  “Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”  “As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”  “I have a cab outside.”  “Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.”  It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.  “I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views.”  “I was certainly surprised to find you there.”  “But not more so than I to find you.”  “I came to find a friend.”  “And I to find an enemy.”  “An enemy?”  “Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”  “What! You do not mean bodies?”  “Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £ 1000 for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.” He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs.  “Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”  “If I can be of use.”  “Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.”  “The Cedars?”  “Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.”  “Where is it, then?”  “Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.”  “But I am all in the dark.”  “Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!”  He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.  “You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door.”  “You forget that I know nothing about it.”  “I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.”  “Proceed, then.”  “Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £ 88 10_s_., while he has £ 220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.  “Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company’s office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?”  “It is very clear.”  “If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.  “Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps—for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night—and running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children’s bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home.  “This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.  “And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman’s clothes.  “So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest.”  “But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?”  “He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.”  “Pray continue your narrative.”  “Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.  “And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the pockets?”  “I cannot imagine.”  “No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.”  “But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?”  “No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat’s sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.”  “It certainly sounds feasible.”  “Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved—what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.”  While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.  “We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse’s feet.”  “But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” I asked.  “Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”  We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.  “Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.  “No good news?”  “None.”  “No bad?”  “No.”  “Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a long day.”  “This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation.”  “I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly. “You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us.”  “My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy.”  “Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, “I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.”  “Certainly, madam.”  “Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”  “Upon what point?”  “In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”  Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly, now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.  “Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”  “You think that he is dead?”  “I do.”  “Murdered?”  “I don’t say that. Perhaps.”  “And on what day did he meet his death?”  “On Monday.”  “Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day.”  Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.  “What!” he roared.  “Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air.  “May I see it?”  “Certainly.”  He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.  “Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your husband’s writing, madam.”  “No, but the enclosure is.”  “I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.”  “How can you tell that?”  “The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!”  “Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”  “And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”  “One of his hands.”  “One?”  “His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well.”  “‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”  “None. Neville wrote those words.”  “And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.”  “But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”  “Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”  “No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”  “Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day.”  “That is possible.”  “If so, much may have happened between.”  “Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?”  “I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?”  “I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.”  “And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?”  “No.”  “And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”  “Very much so.”  “Was the window open?”  “Yes.”  “Then he might have called to you?”  “He might.”  “He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”  “Yes.”  “A call for help, you thought?”  “Yes. He waved his hands.”  “But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?”  “It is possible.”  “And you thought he was pulled back?”  “He disappeared so suddenly.”  “He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”  “No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.”  “Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?”  “But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”  “Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”  “Never.”  “Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”  “Never.”  “Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.”  A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.  “Awake, Watson?” he asked.  “Yes.”  “Game for a morning drive?”  “Certainly.”  “Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.  As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.  “I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”  “And where is it?” I asked, smiling.  “In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”  We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.  “It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”  In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.  “Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.  “Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”  “Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.”  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.”  It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.  “What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”  “I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”  “Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”  “So I heard. You have him here?”  “In the cells.”  “Is he quiet?”  “Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”  “Dirty?”  “Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it.”  “I should like to see him very much.”  “Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag.”  “No, I think that I’ll take it.”  “Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.  “The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.  “He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”  We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.  “He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.  “He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.  “He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.  “Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.”  “Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?” He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.  “Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent.”  Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.  “Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the photograph.”  The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?”  “With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake.”  “If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.”  “No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes. “You would have done better to have trusted your wife.”  “It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure! What can I do?”  Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.  “If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.”  “God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.  “You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26_s_. 4_d_.  “I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for £ 25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.  “Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at £ 2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.  “Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £ 700 a year—which is less than my average takings—but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take £ 2.  “As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what.  “Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.  “I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.”  “That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.  “Good God! What a week she must have spent!”  “The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days.”  “That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”  “Many times; but what was a fine to me?”  “It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”  “I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”  “In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.”  “I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.”     VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE   I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.  “You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”  “Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat—“but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”  I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.”  “No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.”  “So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”  “Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”  “Yes.”  “It is to him that this trophy belongs.”  “It is his hat.”  “No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”  “Which surely he restored to their owner?”  “My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.”  “What, then, did Peterson do?”  “He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”  “Did he not advertise?”  “No.”  “Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”  “Only as much as we can deduce.”  “From his hat?”  “Precisely.”  “But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”  “Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”  I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.  “I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.  “On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”  “Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”  He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him.”  “My dear Holmes!”  “He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”  “You are certainly joking, Holmes.”  “Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?”  “I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?”  For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have something in it.”  “The decline of his fortunes, then?”  “This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.”  “Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?”  Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.”  “Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”  “The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training.”  “But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.”  “This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”  “But he might be a bachelor.”  “Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”  “You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?”  “One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”  “Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”  Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.  “The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.  “Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man’s excited face.  “See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand.  Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he, “this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”  “A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty.”  “It’s more than a precious stone. It is _the_ precious stone.”  “Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.  “Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in _The Times_ every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of £ 1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price.”  “A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.  “That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the gem.”  “It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I remarked.  “Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:  “Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court.”  “Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods.”  “What will you say?”  “Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.’ That is clear and concise.”  “Very. But will he see it?”  “Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.”  “In which, sir?”  “Oh, in the _Globe_, _Star_, _Pall Mall_, _St. James’s Gazette_, _Evening News_, _Standard_, _Echo_, and any others that occur to you.”  “Very well, sir. And this stone?”  “Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring.”  When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it.”  “Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”  “I cannot tell.”  “Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?”  “It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement.”  “And you can do nothing until then?”  “Nothing.”  “In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business.”  “Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop.”  I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes’ room.  “Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”  “Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”  He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.  “We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise.”  Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them.”  “Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it.”  “To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.  “Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?”  “Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.  “Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish—”  The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what use the _disjecta membra_ of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”  Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders.  “There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose.”  “Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.  “So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”  “Not particularly.”  “Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot.”  “By all means.”  It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.  “Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said he.  “My geese!” The man seemed surprised.  “Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club.”  “Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not _our_ geese.”  “Indeed! Whose, then?”  “Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”  “Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”  “Breckinridge is his name.”  “Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night.”  “Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!”  We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up the shutters.  “Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.  The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.  “Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble.  “Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”  “That’s no good.”  “Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”  “Ah, but I was recommended to you.”  “Who by?”  “The landlord of the Alpha.”  “Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”  “Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”  To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.  “Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”  “It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.”  “Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”  “Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.”  “Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.”  “Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred.”  “Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the salesman.  “It’s nothing of the kind.”  “I say it is.”  “I don’t believe it.”  “D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred.”  “You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”  “Will you bet, then?”  “It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”  The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.  The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.  “Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?”  “Well?”  “That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”  “Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.  “Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”  Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’”  “Now, then, what’s the last entry?”  “‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7_s_. 6_d_.’”  “Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”  “‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12_s_.’”  “What have you to say now?”  Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.  “When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’ protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I daresay that if I had put £ 100 down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”  His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.  “I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?”  “No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.  “Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”  “She told me to ask you.”  “Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.  “Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.  “Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice.  “You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you.”  “You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”  “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”  “But you can know nothing of this?”  “Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.”  “Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.”  Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”  The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered with a sidelong glance.  “No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward doing business with an alias.”  A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said he, “my real name is James Ryder.”  “Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know.”  The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.  “Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?”  “Yes, sir.”  “Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which you were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.”  Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it went to?”  “It came here.”  “Here?”  “Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum.”  Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.  “The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!”  For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser.  “I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”  “It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling voice.  “I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then—”  Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”  “Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.”  “I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down.”  “Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety.”  Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.  “I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.  “My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others.  “‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.  “‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.’  “‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’  “‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d rather have that one I was handling just now.’  “‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for you.’  “‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.  “‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want, then?’  “‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.’  “‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’  “Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.  “‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.  “‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’  “‘Which dealer’s?’  “‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’  “‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’  “‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.’  “Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.  There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.  “Get out!” said he.  “What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”  “No more words. Get out!”  And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.  “After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature.”     VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND   On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth.  It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.  “Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you.”  “What is it, then—a fire?”  “No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.”  “My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”  I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.  “Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.”  “It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.  “What, then?”  “It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.  “You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see.”  “You know me, then?”  “No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.”  The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.  “There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.”  “Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.”  Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted.  “Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.”  “Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”  “I am all attention, madam.”  “My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”  Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.  “The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.  “When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less than £ 1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.  “But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.  “Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.  “You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has.”  “Your sister is dead, then?”  “She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.”  Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor.  “Pray be precise as to details,” said he.  “It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?”  “Perfectly so.”  “The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.  “‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the night?’  “‘Never,’ said I.  “‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?’  “‘Certainly not. But why?’  “‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it.’  “‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’  “‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.’  “‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’  “‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock.”  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?”  “Always.”  “And why?”  “I think that I mentioned to you that the Doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”  “Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”  “I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the Doctor’s room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister.”  “One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?”  “That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”  “Was your sister dressed?”  “No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.”  “Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?”  “He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her.”  “How about poison?”  “The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”  “What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”  “It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”  “Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?”  “Yes, there are nearly always some there.”  “Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled band?”  “Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used.”  Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.  “These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your narrative.”  “Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice.”  “You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”  “Yes, all.”  “Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.”  “Why, what do you mean?”  For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.  “You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.  The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”  There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire.  “This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?”  “As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.”  “Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”  “By no means.”  “Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?”  “I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there in time for your coming.”  “And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”  “No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided from the room.  “And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.  “It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”  “Dark enough and sinister enough.”  “Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end.”  “What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?”  “I cannot think.”  “When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines.”  “But what, then, did the gipsies do?”  “I cannot imagine.”  “I see many objections to any such theory.”  “And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!”  The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.  “Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.  “My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion quietly.  “I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”  “Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.”  “I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?”  “It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.  “What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously.  “But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my companion imperturbably.  “Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”  My friend smiled.  “Holmes, the busybody!”  His smile broadened.  “Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!”  Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,” said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught.”  “I will go when I have had my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.  “See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.  “He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.  “Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’ Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter.”  It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures.  “I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the time of the wife’s death was little short of £ 1,100, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £ 750. Each daughter can claim an income of £ 250, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”  At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.  “Look there!” said he.  A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.  “Stoke Moran?” said he.  “Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the driver.  “There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we are going.”  “There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”  “And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”  We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead.  “I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word.”  Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening.”  “We have had the pleasure of making the Doctor’s acquaintance,” said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.  “Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.”  “So it appears.”  “He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns?”  “He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine.”  The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.  “This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott’s chamber?”  “Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”  “Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.”  “There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room.”  “Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course?”  “Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.”  “As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar your shutters?”  Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!” said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter.”  A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment.  “Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last pointing to a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow.  “It goes to the housekeeper’s room.”  “It looks newer than the other things?”  “Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.”  “Your sister asked for it, I suppose?”  “No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we wanted for ourselves.”  “Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.  “Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.  “Won’t it ring?”  “No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is.”  “How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”  “Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!”  “That is also quite modern,” said the lady.  “Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes.  “Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.”  “They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment.”  Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the keenest interest.  “What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.  “My stepfather’s business papers.”  “Oh! you have seen inside, then?”  “Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.”  “There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”  “No. What a strange idea!”  “Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on the top of it.  “No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.”  “Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention.  “Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!”  The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord.  “What do you make of that, Watson?”  “It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.”  “That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.”  I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie.  “It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect.”  “I shall most certainly do so.”  “The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance.”  “I assure you that I am in your hands.”  “In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room.”  Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.  “Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over there?”  “Yes, that is the Crown.”  “Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?”  “Certainly.”  “You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night.”  “Oh, yes, easily.”  “The rest you will leave in our hands.”  “But what will you do?”  “We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you.”  “I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve.  “Perhaps I have.”  “Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s death.”  “I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.”  “You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright.”  “No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.”  Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the Doctor’s voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.  “Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger.”  “Can I be of assistance?”  “Your presence might be invaluable.”  “Then I shall certainly come.”  “It is very kind of you.”  “You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than was visible to me.”  “No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did.”  “I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.”  “You saw the ventilator, too?”  “Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through.”  “I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke Moran.”  “My dear Holmes!”  “Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.”  “But what harm can there be in that?”  “Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?”  “I cannot as yet see any connection.”  “Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”  “No.”  “It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?”  “I cannot say that I have.”  “The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”  “Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”  “Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful.”  About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us.  “That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes from the middle window.”  As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.  There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.  “My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”  Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.  “It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”  I had forgotten the strange pets which the Doctor affected. There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words:  “The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”  I nodded to show that I had heard.  “We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”  I nodded again.  “Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair.”  I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.  Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.  How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.  From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.  Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.  “You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”  But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose.  “What can it mean?” I gasped.  “It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott’s room.”  With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.  It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.  “The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes.  I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.  “It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened.”  As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it.  Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day.  “I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word ‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim.  “I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it.”  “With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”  “And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience.”     IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S THUMB   Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice—that of Mr. Hatherley’s thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute and original observer, but the other was so strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that it may be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable results. The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less striking when set forth _en bloc_ in a single half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken the effect.  It was in the summer of ’89, not long after my marriage, that the events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my virtues and of endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might have any influence.  One morning, at a little before seven o’clock, I was awakened by the maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.  “I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder; “he’s all right.”  “What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some strange creature which he had caged up in my room.  “It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d bring him round myself; then he couldn’t slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you.” And off he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank him.  I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control.  “I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said he, “but I have had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table.”  I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor).” That was the name, style, and abode of my morning visitor. “I regret that I have kept you waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library-chair. “You are fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous occupation.”  “Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,” said he, and laughed. He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against that laugh.  “Stop it!” I cried; “pull yourself together!” and I poured out some water from a caraffe.  It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and pale-looking.  “I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped.  “Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy into the water, and the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.  “That’s better!” said he. “And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be.”  He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.  “Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury. It must have bled considerably.”  “Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a twig.”  “Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.”  “It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own province.”  “This has been done,” said I, examining the wound, “by a very heavy and sharp instrument.”  “A thing like a cleaver,” said he.  “An accident, I presume?”  “By no means.”  “What! a murderous attack?”  “Very murderous indeed.”  “You horrify me.”  I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.  “How is that?” I asked when I had finished.  “Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through.”  “Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying to your nerves.”  “Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but, between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which I can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will be done.”  “Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police.”  “Oh, I have heard of that fellow,” answered my visitor, “and I should be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to him?”  “I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.”  “I should be immensely obliged to you.”  “We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?”  “Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story.”  “Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an instant.” I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife, and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new acquaintance to Baker Street.  Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of _The Times_ and smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of brandy and water within his reach.  “It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr. Hatherley,” said he. “Pray, lie down there and make yourself absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep up your strength with a little stimulant.”  “Thank you,” said my patient, “but I have felt another man since the doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences.”  Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor detailed to us.  “You must know,” said he, “that I am an orphan and a bachelor, residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my work during the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time, and having also come into a fair sum of money through my poor father’s death, I determined to start in business for myself and took professional chambers in Victoria Street.  “I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so. During two years I have had three consultations and one small job, and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My gross takings amount to £ 27 10_s_. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began to sink, and I came to believe that I should never have any practice at all.  “Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of ‘Colonel Lysander Stark’ engraved upon it. Close at his heels came the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His whole face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than thirty.  “‘Mr. Hatherley?’ said he, with something of a German accent. ‘You have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of preserving a secret.’  “I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an address. ‘May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?’  “‘Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.’  “‘That is quite correct,’ I answered; ‘but you will excuse me if I say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter that you wished to speak to me?’  “‘Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy is quite essential—absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who lives in the bosom of his family.’  “‘If I promise to keep a secret,’ said I, ‘you may absolutely depend upon my doing so.’  “He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.  “‘Do you promise, then?’ said he at last.  “‘Yes, I promise.’  “‘Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?’  “‘I have already given you my word.’  “‘Very good.’ He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was empty.  “‘That’s all right,’ said he, coming back. ‘I know that clerks are sometimes curious as to their master’s affairs. Now we can talk in safety.’ He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.  “A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my impatience.  “‘I beg that you will state your business, sir,’ said I; ‘my time is of value.’ Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to my lips.  “‘How would fifty guineas for a night’s work suit you?’ he asked.  “‘Most admirably.’  “‘I say a night’s work, but an hour’s would be nearer the mark. I simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?’  “‘The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.’  “‘Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train.’  “‘Where to?’  “‘To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from Paddington which would bring you there at about 11:15.’  “‘Very good.’  “‘I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.’  “‘There is a drive, then?’  “‘Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven miles from Eyford Station.’  “‘Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night.’  “‘Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.’  “‘That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient hour?’  “‘We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw out of the business, there is plenty of time to do so.’  “I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be to me. ‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘I shall be very happy to accommodate myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.’  “‘Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to commit you to anything without your having it all laid before you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?’  “‘Entirely.’  “‘Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that fuller’s-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in one or two places in England?’  “‘I have heard so.’  “‘Some little time ago I bought a small place—a very small place—within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that there was a deposit of fuller’s-earth in one of my fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two very much larger ones upon the right and left—both of them, however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely ignorant that their land contained that which was quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value, but unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and secretly work our own little deposit and that in this way we should earn the money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields. This we have now been doing for some time, and in order to help us in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have already explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise me that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?’  “‘I quite follow you,’ said I. ‘The only point which I could not quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in excavating fuller’s-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like gravel from a pit.’  “‘Ah!’ said he carelessly, ‘we have our own process. We compress the earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.’ He rose as he spoke. ‘I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11:15.’  “‘I shall certainly be there.’  “‘And not a word to a soul.’ He looked at me with a last long, questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he hurried from the room.  “Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a price upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my patron had made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not think that his explanation of the fuller’s-earth was sufficient to explain the necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off, having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue.  “At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station. However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached the little dim-lit station after eleven o’clock. I was the only passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as fast as the horse could go.”  “One horse?” interjected Holmes.  “Yes, only one.”  “Did you observe the colour?”  “Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the carriage. It was a chestnut.”  “Tired-looking or fresh?”  “Oh, fresh and glossy.”  “Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your most interesting statement.”  “Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove away.  “It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand.  “‘Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,’ said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. ‘I shall not keep you waiting an instant,’ said he, and vanished into the darkness.  “I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee.  “Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind her.  “‘I would go,’ said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak calmly; ‘I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you to do.’  “‘But, madam,’ said I, ‘I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.’  “‘It is not worth your while to wait,’ she went on. ‘You can pass through the door; no one hinders.’ And then, seeing that I smiled and shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step forward, with her hands wrung together. ‘For the love of Heaven!’ she whispered, ‘get away from here before it is too late!’  “But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should I slink away without having carried out my commission, and without the payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head and declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to renew her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had come.  “The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.  “‘This is my secretary and manager,’ said the colonel. ‘By the way, I was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear that you have felt the draught.’  “‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I opened the door myself because I felt the room to be a little close.’  “He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. ‘Perhaps we had better proceed to business, then,’ said he. ‘Mr. Ferguson and I will take you up to see the machine.’  “‘I had better put my hat on, I suppose.’  “‘Oh, no, it is in the house.’  “‘What, you dig fuller’s-earth in the house?’  “‘No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what is wrong with it.’  “We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors, the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture above the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls, and the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not forgotten the warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at least a fellow-countryman.  “Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the colonel ushered me in.  “‘We are now,’ said he, ‘actually within the hydraulic press, and it would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over and to show us how we can set it right.’  “I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound that there was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of water through one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of the india-rubber bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my companions, who followed my remarks very carefully and asked several practical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When I had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller’s-earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel looking down at me.  “‘What are you doing there?’ he asked.  “I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that which he had told me. ‘I was admiring your fuller’s-earth,’ said I; ‘I think that I should be better able to advise you as to your machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.’  “The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey eyes.  “‘Very well,’ said he, ‘you shall know all about the machine.’ He took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves. ‘Hullo!’ I yelled. ‘Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!’  “And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force which must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my face the weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope back to my heart.  “I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I could hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from death. The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting upon the other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal, told me how narrow had been my escape.  “I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had so foolishly rejected.  “‘Come! come!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘They will be here in a moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious time, but come!’  “This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one answering the other from the floor on which  we were and from the one beneath. My guide stopped and looked about her like one  who is at her wit’s end. Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom, through the window of which the moon was shining brightly.  “‘It is your only chance,’ said she. ‘It is high, but it may be that you can jump it.’  “As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher’s cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.  “‘Fritz! Fritz!’ she cried in English, ‘remember your promise after the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he will be silent!’  “‘You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted, struggling to break away from her. ‘You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’ He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden below.  “I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time, saw that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among the rose-bushes.  “How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew, and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my night’s adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just a little lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.  “Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles off.  “It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you advise.”  We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his cuttings.  “Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he. “It appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: ‘Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was dressed in,’ etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy.”  “Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that explains what the girl said.”  “Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford.”  Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together, bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre.  “There you are,” said he. “That circle is drawn at a radius of ten miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that line. You said ten miles, I think, sir.”  “It was an hour’s good drive.”  “And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were unconscious?”  “They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been lifted and conveyed somewhere.”  “What I cannot understand,” said I, “is why they should have spared you when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain was softened by the woman’s entreaties.”  “I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my life.”  “Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk that we are in search of are to be found.”  “I think I could lay my finger on it,” said Holmes quietly.  “Really, now!” cried the inspector, “you have formed your opinion! Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the country is more deserted there.”  “And I say east,” said my patient.  “I am for west,” remarked the plain-clothes man. “There are several quiet little villages up there.”  “And I am for north,” said I, “because there are no hills there, and our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any.”  “Come,” cried the inspector, laughing; “it’s a very pretty diversity of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your casting vote to?”  “You are all wrong.”  “But we can’t all be.”  “Oh, yes, you can. This is my point.” He placed his finger in the centre of the circle. “This is where we shall find them.”  “But the twelve-mile drive?” gasped Hatherley.  “Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?”  “Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough,” observed Bradstreet thoughtfully. “Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this gang.”  “None at all,” said Holmes. “They are coiners on a large scale, and have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of silver.”  “We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,” said the inspector. “They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that showed that they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that we have got them right enough.”  But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape.  “A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on its way.  “Yes, sir!” said the station-master.  “When did it break out?”  “I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and the whole place is in a blaze.”  “Whose house is it?”  “Dr. Becher’s.”  “Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a German, very thin, with a long, sharp nose?”  The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an Englishman, and there isn’t a man in the parish who has a better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm.”  The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.  “That’s it!” cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. “There is the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second window is the one that I jumped from.”  “Well, at least,” said Holmes, “you have had your revenge upon them. There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night, though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now.”  And Holmes’ fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes’ ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.  The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have been already referred to.  How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger.  “Well,” said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once more to London, “it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?”  “Experience,” said Holmes, laughing. “Indirectly it may be of value, you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of being excellent company for the remainder of your existence.”     X. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR   The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little sketch of this remarkable episode.  It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble correspondent could be.  “Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked as he entered. “Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a tide-waiter.”  “Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie.”  He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.  “Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all.”  “Not social, then?”  “No, distinctly professional.”  “And from a noble client?”  “One of the highest in England.”  “My dear fellow, I congratulate you.”  “I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late, have you not?”  “It looks like it,” said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the corner. “I have had nothing else to do.”  “It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?”  “Oh, yes, with the deepest interest.”  “That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he says:      “‘MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—Lord Backwater tells me that I may     place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have     determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in     reference to the very painful event which has occurred in     connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is     acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no     objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that it     might be of some assistance. I will call at four o’clock in the     afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that time,     I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of paramount     importance. Yours faithfully,       “‘ROBERT ST. SIMON.’   “It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer side of his right little finger,” remarked Holmes as he folded up the epistle.  “He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour.”  “Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.” He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting down and flattening it out upon his knee. “‘Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral.’ Hum! ‘Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.’ He’s forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more solid.”  “I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I, “for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.”  “Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van. That is quite cleared up now—though, indeed, it was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.”  “Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column of the _Morning Post_, and dates, as you see, some weeks back: ‘A marriage has been arranged,’ it says, ‘and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.’ That is all.”  “Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire.  “There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of the same week. Ah, here it is: ‘There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage  market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a British peeress.’”  “Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.  “Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the _Morning Post_ to say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at St. George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later—that is, on Wednesday last—there is a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride.”  “Before the what?” asked Holmes with a start.  “The vanishing of the lady.”  “When did she vanish, then?”  “At the wedding breakfast.”  “Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite dramatic, in fact.”  “Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.”  “They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this. Pray let me have the details.”  “I warn you that they are very incomplete.”  “Perhaps we may make them less so.”  “Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding’:  “‘The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation.  “‘The ceremony, which was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange disappearance of the bride.’”  “And is that all?”  “Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a suggestive one.”  “And it is—”  “That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a _danseuse_ at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years. There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands now—so far as it has been set forth in the public press.”  “And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own memory.”  “Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses.  “Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”  “A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of society.”  “No, I am descending.”  “I beg pardon.”  “My last client of the sort was a king.”  “Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?”  “The King of Scandinavia.”  “What! Had he lost his wife?”  “You can understand,” said Holmes suavely, “that I extend to the affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in yours.”  “Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg pardon. As to my own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in forming an opinion.”  “Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints, nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct—this article, for example, as to the disappearance of the bride.”  Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it goes.”  “But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by questioning you.”  “Pray do so.”  “When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”  “In San Francisco, a year ago.”  “You were travelling in the States?”  “Yes.”  “Did you become engaged then?”  “No.”  “But you were on a friendly footing?”  “I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.”  “Her father is very rich?”  “He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.”  “And how did he make his money?”  “In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold, invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds.”  “Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s—your wife’s character?”  The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the fire. “You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is impetuous—volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to bear”—he gave a little stately cough—“had I not thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her.”  “Have you her photograph?”  “I brought this with me.” He opened a locket and showed us the full face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon.  “The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your acquaintance?”  “Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.”  “She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?”  “A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.”  “And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a _fait accompli_?”  “I really have made no inquiries on the subject.”  “Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the wedding?”  “Yes.”  “Was she in good spirits?”  “Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future lives.”  “Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?”  “She was as bright as possible—at least until after the ceremony.”  “And did you observe any change in her then?”  “Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however, was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the case.”  “Pray let us have it, for all that.”  “Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over into the pew. There was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause.”  “Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the general public were present, then?”  “Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open.”  “This gentleman was not one of your wife’s friends?”  “No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I think that we are wandering rather far from the point.”  “Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering her father’s house?”  “I saw her in conversation with her maid.”  “And who is her maid?”  “Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with her.”  “A confidential servant?”  “A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these things in a different way.”  “How long did she speak to this Alice?”  “Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of.”  “You did not overhear what they said?”  “Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She was accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant.”  “American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?”  “She walked into the breakfast-room.”  “On your arm?”  “No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came back.”  “But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her room, covered her bride’s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went out.”  “Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.”  “Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and your relations to her.”  Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “We have been on a friendly footing for some years—I may say on a _very_ friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a row.”  “Did your wife hear all this?”  “No, thank goodness, she did not.”  “And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?”  “Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some terrible trap for her.”  “Well, it is a possible supposition.”  “You think so, too?”  “I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this as likely?”  “I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”  “Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is your own theory as to what took place?”  “Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife.”  “In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?”  “Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back—I will not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without success—I can hardly explain it in any other fashion.”  “Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,” said Holmes, smiling. “And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that you could see out of the window?”  “We could see the other side of the road and the Park.”  “Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I shall communicate with you.”  “Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,” said our client, rising.  “I have solved it.”  “Eh? What was that?”  “I say that I have solved it.”  “Where, then, is my wife?”  “That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.”  Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that it will take wiser heads than yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately, old-fashioned manner he departed.  “It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think that I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before our client came into the room.”  “My dear Holmes!”  “I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau’s example.”  “But I have heard all that you have heard.”  “Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases—but, hullo, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box.”  The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the cigar which had been offered to him.  “What’s up, then?” asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. “You look dissatisfied.”  “And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business.”  “Really! You surprise me.”  “Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day.”  “And very wet it seems to have made you,” said Holmes laying his hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket.  “Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.”  “In Heaven’s name, what for?”  “In search of the body of Lady St. Simon.”  Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.  “Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?” he asked.  “Why? What do you mean?”  “Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one as in the other.”  Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. “I suppose you know all about it,” he snarled.  “Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.”  “Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the matter?”  “I think it very unlikely.”  “Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?” He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a bride’s wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water. “There,” said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. “There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.”  “Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You dragged them from the Serpentine?”  “No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off.”  “By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?”  “At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.”  “I am afraid that you will find it difficult.”  “Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some bitterness. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.”  “And how?”  “In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the card-case is a note. And here is the very note.” He slapped it down upon the table in front of him. “Listen to this: ‘You will see me when all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.’ Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within their reach.”  “Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he.  “Ha! you find it so?”  “Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.”  Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he shrieked, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”  “On the contrary, this is the right side.”  “The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over here.”  “And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply.”  “There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “‘Oct. 4th, rooms 8_s_., breakfast 2_s_. 6_d_., cocktail 1_s_., lunch 2_s_. 6_d_., glass sherry, 8_d_.’ I see nothing in that.”  “Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate you again.”  “I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising. “I believe in hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter first.” He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made for the door.  “Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes before his rival vanished; “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such person.”  Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.  He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor work,” he remarked, “so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your papers for a little.”  It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner’s man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a _pâté de foie gras_ pie with a group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered to this address.  Just before nine o’clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions.  “They have laid the supper, then,” he said, rubbing his hands.  “You seem to expect company. They have laid for five.”  “Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,” said he. “I am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that I hear his step now upon the stairs.”  It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in, dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.  “My messenger reached you, then?” asked Holmes.  “Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure. Have you good authority for what you say?”  “The best possible.”  Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his forehead.  “What will the Duke say,” he murmured, “when he hears that one of the family has been subjected to such humiliation?”  “It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any humiliation.”  “Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint.”  “I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to advise her at such a crisis.”  “It was a slight, sir, a public slight,” said Lord St. Simon, tapping his fingers upon the table.  “You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so unprecedented a position.”  “I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been shamefully used.”  “I think that I heard a ring,” said Holmes. “Yes, there are steps on the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be more successful.” He opened the door and ushered in a lady and gentleman. “Lord St. Simon,” said he “allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met.”  At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him, but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard to resist.  “You’re angry, Robert,” said she. “Well, I guess you have every cause to be.”  “Pray make no apology to me,” said Lord St. Simon bitterly.  “Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn’t know what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn’t fall down and do a faint right there before the altar.”  “Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the room while you explain this matter?”  “If I may give an opinion,” remarked the strange gentleman, “we’ve had just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it.” He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner.  “Then I’ll tell our story right away,” said the lady. “Frank here and I met in ’84, in McQuire’s camp, near the Rockies, where Pa was working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer Pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last Pa wouldn’t hear of our engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to ’Frisco. Frank wouldn’t throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without Pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as Pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. ‘Why shouldn’t we be married right away, then,’ said he, ‘and then I will feel sure of you; and I won’t claim to be your husband until I come back?’ Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to Pa.  “The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners’ camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank’s name among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in ’Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to ’Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and Pa was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank.  “Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I’d have done my duty by him. We can’t command our love, but we can our actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank standing and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I didn’t drop. I know that everything was turning round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee in my ear. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stop the service and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct.  “When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain afterwards. I hadn’t been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St. Simon to me—seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage also—but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to ’Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding.”  “I saw it in a paper,” explained the American. “It gave the name and the church but not where the lady lived.”  “Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should like to vanish away and never see any of them again—just sending a line to Pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very meanly of me.”  Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long narrative.  “Excuse me,” he said, “but it is not my custom to discuss my most intimate personal affairs in this public manner.”  “Then you won’t forgive me? You won’t shake hands before I go?”  “Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.” He put out his hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.  “I had hoped,” suggested Holmes, “that you would have joined us in a friendly supper.”  “I think that there you ask a little too much,” responded his Lordship. “I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with your permission I will now wish you all a very good-night.” He included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.  “Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not prevent our children from being some day citizens of the same world-wide country under a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes.”  “The case has been an interesting one,” remarked Holmes when our visitors had left us, “because it serves to show very clearly how simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”  “You were not yourself at fault at all, then?”  “From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning home. Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What could that something be? She could not have spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be someone from America because she had spent so short a time in this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to change her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an American. Then who could this American be, and why should he possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St. Simon’s narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in the bride’s manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion to claim-jumping—which in miners’ parlance means taking possession of that which another person has a prior claim to—the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a previous husband—the chances being in favour of the latter.”  “And how in the world did you find them?”  “It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information in his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still was it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of the most select London hotels.”  “How did you deduce the select?”  “By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I came upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give them some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be better in every way that they should make their position a little clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the appointment.”  “But with no very good result,” I remarked. “His conduct was certainly not very gracious.”  “Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling, “perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings.”     XI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET   “Holmes,” said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down the street, “here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that his relatives should allow him to come out alone.”  My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of the footpaths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.  He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the most extraordinary contortions.  “What on earth can be the matter with him?” I asked. “He is looking up at the numbers of the houses.”  “I believe that he is coming here,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands.  “Here?”  “Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?” As he spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at our bell until the whole house resounded with the clanging.  A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity. For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon him and tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.  “You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?” said he. “You are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little problem which you may submit to me.”  The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us.  “No doubt you think me mad?” said he.  “I see that you have had some great trouble,” responded Holmes.  “God knows I have!—a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced, although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain. Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land may suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair.”  “Pray compose yourself, sir,” said Holmes, “and let me have a clear account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you.”  “My name,” answered our visitor, “is probably familiar to your ears. I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of Threadneedle Street.”  The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City of London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all curiosity, until with another effort he braced himself to tell his story.  “I feel that time is of value,” said he; “that is why I hastened here when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as shortly and yet as clearly as I can.  “It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security is unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction during the last few years, and there are many noble families to whom we have advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries, or plate.  “Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the name, for it was that of none other than—well, perhaps even to you I had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household word all over the earth—one of the highest, noblest, most exalted names in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.  “‘Mr. Holder,’ said he, ‘I have been informed that you are in the habit of advancing money.’  “‘The firm does so when the security is good.’ I answered.  “‘It is absolutely essential to me,’ said he, ‘that I should have £ 50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of business and to carry out that business myself. In my position you can readily understand that it is unwise to place one’s self under obligations.’  “‘For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?’ I asked.  “‘Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should be paid at once.’  “‘I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own private purse,’ said I, ‘were it not that the strain would be rather more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that, even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.’  “‘I should much prefer to have it so,’ said he, raising up a square, black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair. ‘You have doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?’  “‘One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,’ said I.  “‘Precisely.’ He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft, flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he had named. ‘There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,’ said he, ‘and the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my security.’  “I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity from it to my illustrious client.  “‘You doubt its value?’ he asked.  “‘Not at all. I only doubt—’  “‘The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter of form. Is the security sufficient?’  “‘Ample.’  “‘You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this coronet with every possible precaution because I need not say that a great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it would be impossible to replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.’  “Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but, calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty £ 1000 notes. When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying upon the table in front of me, I could not but think with some misgivings of the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me. There could be no doubt that, as it was a national possession, a horrible scandal would ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having ever consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned once more to my work.  “When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers’ safes had been forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined, therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe freely until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room.  “And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few months. She came with an excellent character, however, and has always given me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about the place. That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way.  “So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son, Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes—a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best.  “It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back again.  “And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman’s quick insight into character.  “And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house—sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but each time she has refused him. I think that if anyone could have drawn him into the right path it would have been she, and that his marriage might have changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too late—forever too late!  “Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I shall continue with my miserable story.  “When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but I thought it better not to disturb it.  “‘Where have you put it?’ asked Arthur.  “‘In my own bureau.’  “‘Well, I hope to goodness the house won’t be burgled during the night.’ said he.  “‘It is locked up,’ I answered.  “‘Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.’  “He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very grave face.  “‘Look here, dad,’ said he with his eyes cast down, ‘can you let me have £ 200?’  “‘No, I cannot!’ I answered sharply. ‘I have been far too generous with you in money matters.’  “‘You have been very kind,’ said he, ‘but I must have this money, or else I can never show my face inside the club again.’  “‘And a very good thing, too!’ I cried.  “‘Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,’ said he. ‘I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try other means.’  “I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month. ‘You shall not have a farthing from me,’ I cried, on which he bowed and left the room without another word.  “When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house to see that all was secure—a duty which I usually leave to Mary but which I thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which she closed and fastened as I approached.  “‘Tell me, dad,’ said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, ‘did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?’  “‘Certainly not.’  “‘She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is hardly safe and should be stopped.’  “‘You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?’  “‘Quite sure, dad.’  “‘Then, good-night.’ I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep.  “I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any point which I do not make clear.”  “On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid.”  “I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room door.  “‘Arthur!’ I screamed, ‘you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that coronet?’  “The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.  “‘You blackguard!’ I shouted, beside myself with rage. ‘You have destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels which you have stolen?’  “‘Stolen!’ he cried.  “‘Yes, thief!’ I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.  “‘There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,’ said he.  “‘There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another piece?’  “‘You have called me names enough,’ said he, ‘I will not stand it any longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and make my own way in the world.’  “‘You shall leave it in the hands of the police!’ I cried half-mad with grief and rage. ‘I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.’  “‘You shall learn nothing from me,’ said he with a passion such as I should not have thought was in his nature. ‘If you choose to call the police, let the police find what they can.’  “By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of the coronet and of Arthur’s face, she read the whole story and, with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the housemaid for the police and put the investigation into their hands at once. When the inspector and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law should have its way in everything.  “‘At least,’ said he, ‘you will not have me arrested at once. It would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for five minutes.’  “‘That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have stolen,’ said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing stones.  “‘You may as well face the matter,’ said I; ‘you have been caught in the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.’  “‘Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,’ he answered, turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of £ 1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!”  He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words.  Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire.  “Do you receive much company?” he asked.  “None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of Arthur’s. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one else, I think.”  “Do you go out much in society?”  “Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it.”  “That is unusual in a young girl.”  “She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is four-and-twenty.”  “This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her also.”  “Terrible! She is even more affected than I.”  “You have neither of you any doubt as to your son’s guilt?”  “How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in his hands.”  “I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the coronet at all injured?”  “Yes, it was twisted.”  “Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten it?”  “God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose were innocent, why did he not say so?”  “Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which awoke you from your sleep?”  “They considered that it might be caused by Arthur’s closing his bedroom door.”  “A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of these gems?”  “They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in the hope of finding them.”  “Have they thought of looking outside the house?”  “Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has already been minutely examined.”  “Now, my dear sir,” said Holmes, “is it not obvious to you now that this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it, went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?”  “But what other is there?” cried the banker with a gesture of despair. “If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain them?”  “It is our task to find that out,” replied Holmes; “so now, if you please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into details.”  My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition, which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that the guilt of the banker’s son appeared to me to be as obvious as it did to his unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes’ judgment that I felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long as he was dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke a word the whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought. Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of hope which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest residence of the great financier.  Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led into a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road to the kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen’s entrance. On the left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within the grounds at all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us standing at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the front, down the tradesmen’s path, and so round by the garden behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until he should return. We were sitting there in silence when the door opened and a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle height, slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman’s face. Her lips, too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the more striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character, with immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she went straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a sweet womanly caress.  “You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not, dad?” she asked.  “No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom.”  “But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman’s instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be sorry for having acted so harshly.”  “Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?”  “Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect him.”  “How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the coronet in his hand?”  “Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more. It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison!”  “I shall never let it drop until the gems are found—never, Mary! Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down from London to inquire more deeply into it.”  “This gentleman?” she asked, facing round to me.  “No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the stable lane now.”  “The stable lane?” She raised her dark eyebrows. “What can he hope to find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime.”  “I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove it,” returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from his shoes. “I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?”  “Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up.”  “You heard nothing yourself last night?”  “Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and I came down.”  “You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all the windows?”  “Yes.”  “Were they all fastened this morning?”  “Yes.”  “You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?”  “Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who may have heard uncle’s remarks about the coronet.”  “I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart, and that the two may have planned the robbery.”  “But what is the good of all these vague theories,” cried the banker impatiently, “when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his hands?”  “Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume?”  “Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom.”  “Do you know him?”  “Oh, yes! he is the greengrocer who brings our vegetables round. His name is Francis Prosper.”  “He stood,” said Holmes, “to the left of the door—that is to say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?”  “Yes, he did.”  “And he is a man with a wooden leg?”  Something like fear sprang up in the young lady’s expressive black eyes. “Why, you are like a magician,” said she. “How do you know that?” She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes’ thin, eager face.  “I should be very glad now to go upstairs,” said he. “I shall probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up.”  He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his powerful magnifying lens. “Now we shall go upstairs,” said he at last.  The banker’s dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the bureau first and looked hard at the lock.  “Which key was used to open it?” he asked.  “That which my son himself indicated—that of the cupboard of the lumber-room.”  “Have you it here?”  “That is it on the dressing-table.”  Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.  “It is a noiseless lock,” said he. “It is no wonder that it did not wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a look at it.” He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller’s art, and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding three gems had been torn away.  “Now, Mr. Holder,” said Holmes, “here is the corner which corresponds to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will break it off.”  The banker recoiled in horror. “I should not dream of trying,” said he.  “Then I will.” Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without result. “I feel it give a little,” said he; “but, though I am exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a few yards of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?”  “I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me.”  “But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss Holder?”  “I confess that I still share my uncle’s perplexity.”  “Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?”  “He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt.”  “Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my investigations outside.”  He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow and his features as inscrutable as ever.  “I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,” said he; “I can serve you best by returning to my rooms.”  “But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?”  “I cannot tell.”  The banker wrung his hands. “I shall never see them again!” he cried. “And my son? You give me hopes?”  “My opinion is in no way altered.”  “Then, for God’s sake, what was this dark business which was acted in my house last night?”  “If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it clearer. I understand that you give me _carte blanche_ to act for you, provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit on the sum I may draw.”  “I would give my fortune to have them back.”  “Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then. Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again before evening.”  It was obvious to me that my companion’s mind was now made up about the case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to some other topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not yet three when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried to his chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a common loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.  “I think that this should do,” said he, glancing into the glass above the fireplace. “I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that it won’t do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may be following a will-o’-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is. I hope that I may be back in a few hours.” He cut a slice of beef from the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off upon his expedition.  I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked it down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.  “I only looked in as I passed,” said he. “I am going right on.”  “Where to?”  “Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I get back. Don’t wait up for me in case I should be late.”  “How are you getting on?”  “Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal. However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self.”  I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that he was off once more upon his congenial hunt.  I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim as possible.  “You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,” said he, “but you remember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning.”  “Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I should not be surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a ring.”  It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy which was even more painful than his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for him.  “I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,” said he. “Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me.”  “Deserted you?”  “Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty, and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:      “‘MY DEAREST UNCLE,—I feel that I have brought trouble upon you,     and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might     never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever     again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you     forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for;     and, above all, do not search for me, for it will be fruitless     labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in death, I am ever     your loving,       “‘MARY.’   “What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points to suicide?”  “No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your troubles.”  “Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have learned something! Where are the gems?”  “You would not think £ 1000 apiece an excessive sum for them?”  “I would pay ten.”  “That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your cheque-book? Here is a pen. Better make it out for £ 4000.”  With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.  With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.  “You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am saved!”  The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.  “There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,” said Sherlock Holmes rather sternly.  “Owe!” He caught up a pen. “Name the sum, and I will pay it.”  “No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have one.”  “Then it was not Arthur who took them?”  “I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not.”  “You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know that the truth is known.”  “He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it to him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the very few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of this morning, however, may open his lips.”  “For Heaven’s sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary mystery!”  “I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it. And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say and for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together.”  “My Mary? Impossible!”  “It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England—a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her, she flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said, but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening.”  “I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the banker with an ashen face.  “I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have been one. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you about one of the servants’ escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was all perfectly true.  “Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door, whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain.  “As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down, just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene.”  “Is it possible?” gasped the banker.  “You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret.”  “And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,” cried Mr. Holder. “Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!”  “When I arrived at the house,” continued Holmes, “I at once went very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen’s path, but found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of me.  “There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the other had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over the depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed after the other. I followed them up and found they led to the hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round, where the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to that clue.  “On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred. A man had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems; the deed had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had struggled with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man and who was it brought him the coronet?  “It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down, so there only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why should your son allow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was an excellent explanation why he should retain her secret—the more so as the secret was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that window, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my conjecture became a certainty.  “And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems. Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word without compromising his own family.  “Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George’s house, managed to pick up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these I journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the tracks.”  “I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,” said Mr. Holder.  “Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then, for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything. But when I gave him every particular that had occurred, he tried to bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike. Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give him a price for the stones he held—£ 1000 apiece. That brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. ‘Why, dash it all!’ said he, ‘I’ve let them go at six hundred for the three!’ I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I set to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at £ 1000 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o’clock, after what I may call a really hard day’s work.”  “A day which has saved England from a great public scandal,” said the banker, rising. “Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even your skill can inform me where she is now.”  “I think that we may safely say,” returned Holmes, “that she is wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient punishment.”     XII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES   “To the man who loves art for its own sake,” remarked Sherlock Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of _The Daily Telegraph_, “it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in these little records of our cases which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence not so much to the many _causes célèbres_ and sensational trials in which I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my special province.”  “And yet,” said I, smiling, “I cannot quite hold myself absolved from the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records.”  “You have erred, perhaps,” he observed, taking up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a meditative mood—“you have erred perhaps in attempting to put colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about the thing.”  “It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter,” I remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend’s singular character.  “No, it is not selfishness or conceit,” said he, answering, as was his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. “If I claim full justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing—a thing beyond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.”  It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last, having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.  “At the same time,” he remarked after a pause, during which he had sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, “you can hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial.”  “The end may have been so,” I answered, “but the methods I hold to have been novel and of interest.”  “Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!” He tossed a crumpled letter across to me.  It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran thus:      “DEAR MR. HOLMES,—I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I     should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to     me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do     not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully,       “VIOLET HUNTER.”   “Do you know the young lady?” I asked.  “Not I.”  “It is half-past ten now.”  “Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring.”  “It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this case, also.”  “Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question.”  As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a plover’s egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own way to make in the world.  “You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure,” said she, as my companion rose to greet her, “but I have had a very strange experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what I should do.”  “Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I can to serve you.”  I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his finger-tips together, to listen to her story.  “I have been a governess for five years,” said she, “in the family of Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my wit’s end as to what I should do.  “There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called Westaway’s, and there I used to call about once a week in order to see whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was the name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has anything which would suit them.  “Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper.  “‘That will do,’ said he; ‘I could not ask for anything better. Capital! capital!’ He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands together in the most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.  “‘You are looking for a situation, miss?’ he asked.  “‘Yes, sir.’  “‘As governess?’  “‘Yes, sir.’  “‘And what salary do you ask?’  “‘I had £ 4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.’  “‘Oh, tut, tut! sweating—rank sweating!’ he cried, throwing his fat hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. ‘How could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and accomplishments?’  “‘My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,’ said I. ‘A little French, a little German, music, and drawing—’  “‘Tut, tut!’ he cried. ‘This is all quite beside the question. The point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in the history of the country. But if you have why, then, how could any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at £ 100 a year.’  “You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however, seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocket-book and took out a note.  “‘It is also my custom,’ said he, smiling in the most pleasant fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the white creases of his face, ‘to advance to my young ladies half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their journey and their wardrobe.’  “It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know a little more before I quite committed myself.  “‘May I ask where you live, sir?’ said I.  “‘Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear young lady, and the dearest old country-house.’  “‘And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.’  “‘One child—one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three gone before you could wink!’ He leaned back in his chair and laughed his eyes into his head again.  “I was a little startled at the nature of the child’s amusement, but the father’s laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.  “‘My sole duties, then,’ I asked, ‘are to take charge of a single child?’  “‘No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,’ he cried. ‘Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no difficulty, heh?’  “‘I should be happy to make myself useful.’  “‘Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you know—faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’  “‘No,’ said I, considerably astonished at his words.  “‘Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?’  “‘Oh, no.’  “‘Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?’  “I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of sacrificing it in this offhand fashion.  “‘I am afraid that that is quite impossible,’ said I. He had been watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow pass over his face as I spoke.  “‘I am afraid that it is quite essential,’ said he. ‘It is a little fancy of my wife’s, and ladies’ fancies, you know, madam, ladies’ fancies must be consulted. And so you won’t cut your hair?’  “‘No, sir, I really could not,’ I answered firmly.  “‘Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity, because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young ladies.’  “The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a handsome commission through my refusal.  “‘Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?’ she asked.  “‘If you please, Miss Stoper.’  “‘Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most excellent offers in this fashion,’ said she sharply. ‘You can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you. Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.’ She struck a gong upon the table, and I was shown out by the page.  “Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table, I began to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting £ 100 a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read it to you:  “‘The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.      “‘DEAR MISS HUNTER,—Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your     address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have     reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should     come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We     are willing to give £ 30 a quarter, or £ 120 a year, so as to     recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may     cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond     of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear     such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to     the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear     daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which would, I should think,     fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or there, or amusing     yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no     inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity,     especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our     short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this     point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you     for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are     very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the     dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. Yours faithfully,       “‘JEPHRO RUCASTLE.’   “That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your consideration.”  “Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the question,” said Holmes, smiling.  “But you would not advise me to refuse?”  “I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for.”  “What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?”  “Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some opinion?”  “Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?”  “That is a possible solution—in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady.”  “But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!”  “Well, yes, of course the pay is good—too good. That is what makes me uneasy. Why should they give you £ 120 a year, when they could have their pick for £ 40? There must be some strong reason behind.”  “I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me.”  “Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger—”  “Danger! What danger do you foresee?”  Holmes shook his head gravely. “It would cease to be a danger if we could define it,” said he. “But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help.”  “That is enough.” She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all swept from her face. “I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow.” With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon her way.  “At least,” said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the stairs, “she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take care of herself.”  “And she would need to be,” said Holmes gravely. “I am much mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past.”  It was not very long before my friend’s prediction was fulfilled. A fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. “Data! data! data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.  The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me.  “Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,” said he, and turned back to his chemical studies.  The summons was a brief and urgent one.  “Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow,” it said. “Do come! I am at my wit’s end.   “HUNTER.”   “Will you come with me?” asked Holmes, glancing up.  “I should wish to.”  “Just look it up, then.”  “There is a train at half-past nine,” said I, glancing over my Bradshaw. “It is due at Winchester at 11:30.”  “That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the morning.”  By eleven o’clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man’s energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from amid the light green of the new foliage.  “Are they not fresh and beautiful?” I cried with all the enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.  But Holmes shook his head gravely.  “Do you know, Watson,” said he, “that it is one of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there.”  “Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate crime with these dear old homesteads?”  “They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”  “You horrify me!”  “But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally threatened.”  “No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away.”  “Quite so. She has her freedom.”  “What _can_ be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?”  “I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct can only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral, and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell.”  The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us. She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the table.  “I am so delighted that you have come,” she said earnestly. “It is so very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do. Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me.”  “Pray tell us what has happened to you.”  “I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle to be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this morning, though he little knew for what purpose.”  “Let us have everything in its due order.” Holmes thrust his long thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.  “In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in my mind about them.”  “What can you not understand?”  “Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides, and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord Southerton’s preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to the place.  “I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with her father’s young wife.  “Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes wandered continually from one to the other, noting every little want and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I have surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the disposition of her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large. His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has little to do with my story.”  “I am glad of all details,” remarked my friend, “whether they seem to you to be relevant or not.”  “I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife. Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one corner of the building.  “For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and whispered something to her husband.  “‘Oh, yes,’ said he, turning to me, ‘we are very much obliged to you, Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and if you would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely obliged.’  “The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching along the entire front of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair had been placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. In this I was asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on the other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest stories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap, and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of the day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in the nursery.  “Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of which my employer had an immense _répertoire_, and which he told inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my dress.  “You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able with a little management to see all that there was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There was nothing. At least that was my first impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are usually people there. This man, however, was leaning against the railings which bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose at once.  “‘Jephro,’ said she, ‘there is an impertinent fellow upon the road there who stares up at Miss Hunter.’  “‘No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?’ he asked.  “‘No, I know no one in these parts.’  “‘Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him to go away.’  “‘Surely it would be better to take no notice.’  “‘No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round and wave him away like that.’  “I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man in the road.”  “Pray continue,” said Holmes. “Your narrative promises to be a most interesting one.”  “You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak. On the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as of a large animal moving about.  “‘Look in here!’ said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two planks. ‘Is he not a beauty?’  “I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a vague figure huddled up in the darkness.  “‘Don’t be frightened,’ said my employer, laughing at the start which I had given. ‘It’s only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness’ sake don’t you ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at night, for it’s as much as your life is worth.’  “The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look out of my bedroom window about two o’clock in the morning. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf, tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart which I do not think that any burglar could have done.  “And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers in the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked. I had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.  “I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together, and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer which they had locked.  “I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him a very different person to the round, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried past me without a word or a look.  “This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as merry and jovial as ever.  “‘Ah!’ said he, ‘you must not think me rude if I passed you without a word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.’  “I assured him that I was not offended. ‘By the way,’ said I, ‘you seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the shutters up.’  “He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my remark.  “‘Photography is one of my hobbies,’ said he. ‘I have made my dark room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed it?’ He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest.  “Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty—a feeling that some good might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of woman’s instinct; perhaps it was woman’s instinct which gave me that feeling. At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout for any chance to pass the forbidden door.  “It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that, besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently in the lock, opened the door, and slipped through.  “There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted, which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open. They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two windows in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the evening light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was closed, and across the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at the other with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and forward against the little slit of dim light which shone out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and ran—ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.  “‘So,’ said he, smiling, ‘it was you, then. I thought that it must be when I saw the door open.’  “‘Oh, I am so frightened!’ I panted.  “‘My dear young lady! my dear young lady!’—you cannot think how caressing and soothing his manner was—‘and what has frightened you, my dear young lady?’  “But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was keenly on my guard against him.  “‘I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,’ I answered. ‘But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!’  “‘Only that?’ said he, looking at me keenly.  “‘Why, what did you think?’ I asked.  “‘Why do you think that I lock this door?’  “‘I am sure that I do not know.’  “‘It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?’ He was still smiling in the most amiable manner.  “‘I am sure if I had known—’  “‘Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that threshold again’—here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon—‘I’ll throw you to the mastiff.’  “I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the house, but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down to the office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one in the household who had any influence with the savage creature, or who would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this morning, but I must be back before three o’clock, for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all the evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should do.”  Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his face.  “Is Toller still drunk?” he asked.  “Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him.”  “That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?”  “Yes.”  “Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?”  “Yes, the wine-cellar.”  “You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman.”  “I will try. What is it?”  “We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o’clock, my friend and I. The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely.”  “I will do it.”  “Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some friend of hers—possibly her _fiancé_—and no doubt, as you wore the girl’s dress and were so like her, he was convinced from your laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition of the child.”  “What on earth has that to do with it?” I ejaculated.  “My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don’t you see that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their children. This child’s disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty’s sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their power.”  “I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes,” cried our client. “A thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor creature.”  “We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We can do nothing until seven o’clock. At that hour we shall be with you, and it will not be long before we solve the mystery.”  We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house. The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the house even had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the door-step.  “Have you managed it?” asked Holmes.  A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. “That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar,” said she. “Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr. Rucastle’s.”  “You have done well indeed!” cried Holmes with enthusiasm. “Now lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business.”  We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came from within, and at the silence Holmes’ face clouded over.  “I trust that we are not too late,” said he. “I think, Miss Hunter, that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in.”  It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.  “There has been some villainy here,” said Holmes; “this beauty has guessed Miss Hunter’s intentions and has carried his victim off.”  “But how?”  “Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.” He swung himself up onto the roof. “Ah, yes,” he cried, “here’s the end of a long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it.”  “But it is impossible,” said Miss Hunter; “the ladder was not there when the Rucastles went away.”  “He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as well for you to have your pistol ready.”  The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him.  “You villain!” said he, “where’s your daughter?”  The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.  “It is for me to ask you that,” he shrieked, “you thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I’ll serve you!” He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.  “He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter.  “I have my revolver,” said I.  “Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.  “My God!” he cried. “Someone has loosed the dog. It’s not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it’ll be too late!”  Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle buried in Rucastle’s throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his neck. With much labour we separated them and carried him, living but horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa, and having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to his wife, I did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room.  “Mrs. Toller!” cried Miss Hunter.  “Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn’t let me know what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted.”  “Ha!” said Holmes, looking keenly at her. “It is clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else.”  “Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know.”  “Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark.”  “I will soon make it clear to you,” said she; “and I’d have done so before now if I could ha’ got out from the cellar. If there’s police-court business over this, you’ll remember that I was the one that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice’s friend too.  “She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn’t, from the time that her father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in anything, but it never really became bad for her until after she met Mr. Fowler at a friend’s house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice had rights of her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she never said a word about them but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle’s hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her money. When she wouldn’t do it, he kept on worrying her until she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death’s door. Then she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn’t make no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be.”  “Ah,” said Holmes, “I think that what you have been good enough to tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of imprisonment?”  “Yes, sir.”  “And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler.”  “That was it, sir.”  “But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be, blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the same as his.”  “Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman,” said Mrs. Toller serenely.  “And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your master had gone out.”  “You have it, sir, just as it happened.”  “I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller,” said Holmes, “for you have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me that our _locus standi_ now is rather a questionable one.”  And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife. They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of Rucastle’s past life that he finds it difficult to part from them. Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.     *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ***  Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.  Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.  START: FULL LICENSE  THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK  To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.  Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works  1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.  1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.  1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.  1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.  1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:  1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and   most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no   restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it   under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this   eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the   United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where   you are located before using this eBook.  1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.  1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.  1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.  1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg-tm License.  1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.  1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.  1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided that:  * You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from   the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method   you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed   to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has   agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project   Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid   within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are   legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty   payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project   Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in   Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg   Literary Archive Foundation."  * You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies   you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he   does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm   License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all   copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue   all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm   works.  * You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of   any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the   electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of   receipt of the work.  * You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free   distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.  1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.  1.F.  1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.  1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.  1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.  1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you \'AS-IS\', WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.  1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.  1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.  Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm  Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.  Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm\'s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org  Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation\'s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state\'s laws.  The Foundation\'s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation\'s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact  Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation  Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.  The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate  While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.  International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.  Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate  Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works  Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.  Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.  Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org  This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.  '

'*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE *** THERE IS AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY VIEWED AT EBOOK [# 42671 ] cover Pride and Prejudice By Jane Austen CONTENTS It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters. “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?” Mr. Bennet replied that he had not. “But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.” Mr. Bennet made no answer. “Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently. “_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.” This was invitation enough. “Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.” “What is his name?” “Bingley.” “Is he married or single?” “Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!” “How so? how can it affect them?” “My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.” “Is that his design in settling here?” “Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.” “I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party.” “My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.” “In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.” “But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood.” “It is more than I engage for, I assure you.” “But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit him, if you do not.” “You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.” “I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.” “They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he; “they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters.” “Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.” “You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least.” “Ah, you do not know what I suffer.” “But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.” “It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not visit them.” “Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all.” Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news. Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with, “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.” “We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.” “But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.” “I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her.” “No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you.” Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters. “Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.” “Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times them ill.” “I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully. “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?” “To-morrow fortnight.” “Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself.” “Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_.” “Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him myself; how can you be so teasing?” “I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.” The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense, nonsense!” “What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you, Mary? for you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.” Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how. “While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return to Mr. Bingley.” “I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife. “I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so before? If I had known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.” The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while. “How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said a word about it till now.” “Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife. “What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; or me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance every day; but for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.” “Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the youngest, I’m the tallest.” The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner. Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways; with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained. “If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.” In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse. An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether; Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man. Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend. Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters. Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it. “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.” “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.” “I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.” “_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet. “Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.” “Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.” Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous. The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife’s views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he had a very different story to hear. “Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of _that_, my dear; he actually danced with her twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down the dance. So he enquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_—” “If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband impatiently, “he would not have danced half so much! For God’s sake, say no more of his partners. Oh that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!” “Oh! my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown—” Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy. “But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.” When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him. “He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so much ease, with such perfect good breeding!” “He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.” “I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment.” “Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference between us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.” “Dear Lizzy!” “Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life.” “I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always speak what I think.” “I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_ good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough;—one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design—to take the good of everybody’s character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.” “Certainly not; at first. But they are very pleasing women when you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming neighbour in her.” Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a judgment too unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people of rank; and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired by trade. Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase. His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for half an hour, was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately. Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy’s regard Bingley had the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offence. The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty, but she smiled too much. Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still they admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorised by such commendation to think of her as he chose. Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town; and, quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James’s had made him courteous. Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend. That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate. “_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.” “Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.” “Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather believe he _did_—I heard something about it—but I hardly know what—something about Mr. Robinson.” “Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last question—‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt, there cannot be two opinions on that point.’” “Upon my word! Well, that was very decided indeed—that does seem as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.” “_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,” said Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he?—Poor Eliza!—to be only just _tolerable_.” “I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips.” “Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?” said Jane. “I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.” “Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed very angry at being spoke to.” “Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much unless among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is remarkably agreeable.” “I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.” “I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I wish he had danced with Eliza.” “Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with _him_, if I were you.” “I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.” “His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_ to be proud.” “That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.” “Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.” “If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.” “Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs. Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.” The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit. The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in all probability from the influence of their brother’s admiration. It was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas. “It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely—a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_ affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.” “But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to discover it too.” “Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you do.” “But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out.” “Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses.” “Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand his character.” “Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have been also spent together—and four evenings may do a great deal.” “Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.” “Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.” “You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.” Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware;—to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with. He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled. “What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?” “That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.” “But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.” On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said, “Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?” “With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic.” “You are severe on us.” “It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.” “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well; if it must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, “There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar with—‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge,’—and I shall keep mine to swell my song.” Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display. Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began. “What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies.” “Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world.—Every savage can dance.” Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.” “You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.” “Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James’s?” “Never, sir.” “Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?” “It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.” “You have a house in town, I conclude?” Mr. Darcy bowed. “I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself—for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.” He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her, “My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William, “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.” Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion. “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.” “Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “He is, indeed—but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?” Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley, “I can guess the subject of your reverie.” “I should imagine not.” “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise; the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!” “Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.” Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray when am I to wish you joy?” “That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.” “Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you.” He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long. Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the headquarters. Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign. After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed, “From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.” Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London. “I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own, however.” “If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.” “Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.” “This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.” “My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his regimentals.” “Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke’s library.” Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter read, “Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.” “It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud. “MY DEAR FRIEND,— “If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day’s _tête-à-tête_ between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.—Yours ever, “CAROLINE BINGLEY” “With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of _that_.” “Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.” “Can I have the carriage?” said Jane. “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.” “That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home.” “Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to Meryton; and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.” “I had much rather go in the coach.” “But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?” “They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.” “But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s purpose will be answered.” She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not come back. “This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet, more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth: “MY DEAREST LIZZY,— “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the matter with me.—Yours, &c.” “Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.” “Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.” Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolution. “How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there.” “I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.” “Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the horses?” “No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.” “I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.” “We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off together. “If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.” In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise. She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast. Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her. When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact nothing to do elsewhere. When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes. At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike. Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he found her prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her. When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added, “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.” “She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!” “Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it not doing its office.” “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.” “_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such an exhibition.” “Certainly not.” “To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.” “It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Bingley. “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.” “Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.” A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again. “I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.” “I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.” “Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.” “That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily. “If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.” “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.” “Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.” “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.” “In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.” Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.” Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. “I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!” “It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many generations.” “And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books.” “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these.” “Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.” “I wish it may.” “But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.” “With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.” “I am talking of possibilities, Charles.” “Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.” Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley; “will she be as tall as I am?” “I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.” “How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners!—and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.” “It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.” “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?” “Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.” “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.” “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley. “Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.” “Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.” “Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.” “All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.” “I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.” “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?” “_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united.” Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. “Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.” “Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, “there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.” Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. “Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.” “Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.” “You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, “that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us.” Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. “I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.” “Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.” “That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth. “You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her. “Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly.” “I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful.” “That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.” “Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.” “I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.” “Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage.” “The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.” “But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever.” “Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town.” Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?” “When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.” “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.” “Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.” “Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.” Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother’s thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away. “Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley—is not he? so much the man of fashion! So genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to everybody. _That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.” “Did Charlotte dine with you?” “No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_ plain—but then she is our particular friend.” “She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley. “Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.” “And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!” “I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said Darcy. “Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.” Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle’s good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear. “I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill.” Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.” Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on _fine eyes_. The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” He made no answer. “You write uncommonly fast.” “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.” “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!” “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.” “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.” “I have already told her so once, by your desire.” “I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.” “Thank you—but I always mend my own.” “How can you contrive to write so even?” He was silent. “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.” “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.” “Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?” “They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine.” “It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.” “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?” “My style of writing is very different from yours.” “Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.” “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.” “Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.” “Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.” “And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?” “The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?” “Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.” “I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would probably not go—and, at another word, might stay a month.” “You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.” “I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.” “Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?” “Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for himself.” “You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.” “To yield readily—easily—to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit with you.” “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.” “You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?” “Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?” “By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.” Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense. “I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument, and want to silence this.” “Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.” “What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.” Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter. When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the pianoforte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated herself. Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last, that she drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation. After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her— “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?” She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence. “Oh!” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.” “Indeed I do not dare.” Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger. Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. “I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after the officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.” “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” “Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?” “It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.” At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. “I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard. “You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without telling us that you were coming out.” Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, and immediately said,— “This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.” But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered, “No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.” She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit. But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object; Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad;” but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight. When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some enquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.” No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said: “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.” “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my cards.” “I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of the day.” “Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball.” Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said: “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.” Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. “What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his meaning?”—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? “Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.” Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.” “Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?” “Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.” “But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.” “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh.” “Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be. The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.” “Certainly,” replied Elizabeth—“there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.” “Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.” “Such as vanity and pride.” “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.” Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley; “and pray what is the result?” “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.” “No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.” “_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.” “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.” “And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.” “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.” “Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst?” Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other. The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right. To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her. On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits. They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth. They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married. “I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.” “Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I hope _my_ dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.” “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I must speak to Hill this moment.” “It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.” This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once. After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained: “About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.” “Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it.” Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about. “It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.” “No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did before him?” “Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that head, as you will hear.” “Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15_th October_. “Dear Sir,— “The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.—‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’—My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se’ennight following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend, “WILLIAM COLLINS” “At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again.” “There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him.” “Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit.” Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required. “He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—And what can he mean by apologising for being next in the entail?—We cannot suppose he would help it if he could.—Could he be a sensible man, sir?” “No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.” “In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.” To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs. Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily. “You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.” “You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.” “Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.” “I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—” He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour. During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank—such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself—some shelves in the closet up stairs.” “That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?” “The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.” “I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?” “She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.” “Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?” “She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many accomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.” “Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.” “Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay.” “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?” “They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.” Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with: “Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.” Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said: “I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.” Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own part. His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. “As to her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say—she could not positively answer—but she did not _know_ of any prepossession; her _eldest_ daughter, she must just mention—she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.” Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—and it was soon done—done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course. Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces. Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go. In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall them. But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came to enquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to enquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know. In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend. Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Phillip’s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Phillips’s throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the invitation. Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones’s shop-boy in the street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by exclamations and enquiries about the other; of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s commission in the ——shire. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless. As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister. Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs. Phillips’s manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much attention in the whole course of his life. As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in the house. When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper’s room. In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room. Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist. “I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—” Mrs. Phillips was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason. Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He enquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. “About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.” “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.” Elizabeth could not but look surprised. “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?” “As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.” “I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.” “Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.” “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.” “I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head. “I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.” “I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.” “Oh! no—it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.” Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further enquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.” “Indeed!” “Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.” “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?” “There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.” “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.” “Some time or other he _will_ be—but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.” Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. “But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?” “A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me.” “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this.” After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful.” “I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_ can hardly be just to him.” Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable”—but she contented herself with, “and one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!” “We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but he gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his affection to myself.” “How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.” “It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.” “Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?” “Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride—for he is very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.” “What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?” He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father’s death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.” After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying: “I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?” “Not at all.” “He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.” “Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.” The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual enquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make herself uneasy. “I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.” Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.” “You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.” “No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday.” “Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.” This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined for another. “Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.” “I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the first class.” Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Phillips’s supper party, but his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained. “They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.” “Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.” “Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.” “I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.” “It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what to think.” “I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.” But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—that Mr. Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public. The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities. The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy’s look and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it. “While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.” Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening’s amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance. “I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.” Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness and her own were perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins’s proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him. If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia. Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy’s pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.” This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite enquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her. But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from him was ecstasy. She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to console her: “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.” “Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.” When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:—“It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.” He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said. “Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But _now_ we may be silent.” “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” “Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.” “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?” “Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the _éclat_ of a proverb.” “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_ think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.” “I must not decide on my own performance.” He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.” The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his _making_ friends—whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is less certain.” “He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,” replied Elizabeth with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.” Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his partner. “I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.” The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.” “I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.” “What think you of books?” said he, smiling. “Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.” “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.” “No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.” “The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said he, with a look of doubt. “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being created?_” “I am,” said he, with a firm voice. “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?” “I hope not.” “It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.” “May I ask to what these questions tend?” “Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.” “And what is your success?” She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.” “I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.” “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.” “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against another. They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her: “So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better.” “His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,” said Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward, and of _that_, I can assure you, he informed me himself.” “I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer. “Excuse my interference—it was kindly meant.” “Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr. Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make enquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for happiness. “I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.” “No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.” “Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?” “No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.” “This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am satisfied. But what does he say of the living?” “He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to him _conditionally_ only.” “I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly; “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.” She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose enquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery. “I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.” “You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!” “Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s _nephew_. It will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se’nnight.” Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either side; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when she ceased speaking, replied thus: “My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to Elizabeth. “I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.” As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no chance of it. In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical. “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing _he_ may not like to hear.” “For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing!” Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity. At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another. Mary’s powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however, imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.” Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech, was afraid her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to. “If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man. To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough, and she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable. The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s conversation to herself. She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s further notice; though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it. The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn. When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short time. Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield. The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the observances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words: “May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course of this morning?” Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.” And, gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out: “Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am going away myself.” “No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.” And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.” Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction—and a moment’s consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to conceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began. “Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected mother’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.” The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further, and he continued: “My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh’s footstool, that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I can assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother’s decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.” It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now. “You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline them.” “I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.” “Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is a rather extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_ happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.” “Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins very gravely—“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.” “Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her: “When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female character.” “Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “you puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.” “You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.” “I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart.” “You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.” To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female. Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character. This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could not help saying so. “But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will _make_ her know it.” “Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.” “Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.” She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_.” Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?” “Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.” “And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business.” “Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him.” “Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.” Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library. “Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you have refused?” “I have, sir.” “Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?” “Yes, or I will never see her again.” “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do_.” Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed. “What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to _insist_ upon her marrying him.” “My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.” Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination never did. Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother’s reproach prevented his feeling any regret. While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.” Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.” Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. “Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep you—and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.” Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls, “Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation together.” Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose enquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected conversation: “Oh! Mr. Collins!” “My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your daughter’s lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.” The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end, and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her friend. The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-humour or ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay. After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to enquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their aunt’s where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed. “I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.” She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother. Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane, taking out the letter, said: “This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says.” She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words: “I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his. “It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them.” “Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:” “When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.” “It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this winter.” “It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he _should_.” “Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.” “Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?” “What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?” “Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?” “Most willingly.” “You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you.” Jane shook her head. “Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.” “If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving herself.” “That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.” “But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?” “You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.” “How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.” “I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion.” “But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!” The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline’s interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of everyone. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.” Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there. In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow, everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained. Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. James’s. The whole family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him to visit them. “My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.” They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said: “But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here, my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of offending your patroness.” “My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.” “You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.” “Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.” With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out: “Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!” The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied: “Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?” But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness. “I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.” Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins’s making two offers of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen. Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter—to an audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed: “Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?” Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne without anger such treatment; but Sir William’s good breeding carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy. Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London. Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter. Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his daughter! Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton. Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness away. Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his return. Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men. Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence. Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood. Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was indifferent—but that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane’s happiness, and so dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his attachment. As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more painful than Elizabeth’s, but whatever she felt she was desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane’s steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity. Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed. Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband. “Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_ should be forced to make way for _her_, and live to see her take her place in it!” “My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor.” This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of making any answer, she went on as before. “I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.” “What should not you mind?” “I should not mind anything at all.” “Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such insensibility.” “I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one’s own daughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too! Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?” “I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet. Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country. Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the latter with regard to new furniture. Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her sister’s was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had been aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had escaped his observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded. A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying: “Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.” Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing. “You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to get the better.” With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.” “My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve.” Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise on her sister’s warm affection. “Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. _I_ only want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is unaccountable!” “My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin.” “To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger security for happiness.” “I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.” “And men take care that they should.” “If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.” “I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business.” “And do you impute it to either of those?” “Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.” “You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?” “Yes, in conjunction with his friend.” “I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure it.” “Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride.” “Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother’s. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.” Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them. Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer. Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.” “Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.” “True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it.” Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had known anything of the matter. Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes—but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men. After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks. On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in town. The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business on her arrival was to distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in it. “I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of long sleeves.” Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the conversation. When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.” “An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it will not do for _us_. We do not suffer by accident. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.” “But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour’s acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley’s love?” “I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?” “Oh, yes!—of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be of service—and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as anything.” Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence. “I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.” “And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month’s ablution enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him.” “So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.” “She will drop the acquaintance entirely.” But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane’s attractions. Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she hoped by Caroline’s not living in the same house with her brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of seeing him. The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it—of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment. To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of procuring. Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman’s reputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy. Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on: “You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against _him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.” “My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.” “Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.” “Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.” “Elizabeth, you are not serious now.” “I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—and if he becomes really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father’s opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.” “Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.” “As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: “very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.” Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point, without being resented. Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “_wished_ they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said: “I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.” “_That_ you certainly shall.” “And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?” “We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.” “I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford.” Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. “My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome as either of them.” The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there to know the rest. Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys. Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost. “My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.” She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall see them soon here.” Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in town. Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will prove what she felt. “My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.—Yours, etc.” This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away. Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy. All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial towards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain.” With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to Charlotte’s first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan could be. The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter. The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing. Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his information. It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. “But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.” “Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary.” “If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think.” “She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.” “But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune.” “No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_ affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?” “But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so soon after this event.” “A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it, why should _we_?” “_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling.” “Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.” “No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.” “Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.” “Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.” Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer. “We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.” No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We _will_ know where we have gone—we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.” Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight. When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants. At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her cousin’s manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his enquiries after all her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment. Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground. From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband’s help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten. She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed: “Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I _should_ say, one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.” “Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,” added Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.” “Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.” The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all. About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out— “Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.” Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the garden gate. “And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter.” “La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?” “She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind. Why does she not come in?” “Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.” “I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife.” Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way. At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day. Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough. “I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately after your arrival!” “I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William, “from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.” Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them. When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth— “Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.” While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done to his presentation at St. James’s. As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh. When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought she could witness without trepidation. From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary. In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented. When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her eyes. After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer. The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh—the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire. When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to have her judgement controverted. She enquired into Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her mother’s maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed, “Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?” “A little.” “Oh! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?” “One of them does.” “Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do you draw?” “No, not at all.” “What, none of you?” “Not one.” “That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.” “My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.” “Has your governess left you?” “We never had any governess.” “No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education.” Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been the case. “Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you must have been neglected.” “Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.” “Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf’s calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a treasure.’ Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?” “Yes, ma’am, all.” “All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters must be very young?” “Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.” “Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?” “With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.” Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence. “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not conceal your age.” “I am not one-and-twenty.” When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking—stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names. When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s side and as many bows on Sir William’s they departed. As soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship’s praise into his own hands. Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in reading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room, which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement. From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes’ conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon to get out. Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too large for her family. Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in the commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty. The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins’s reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s curiosity. In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself. His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding: “I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me.” Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him without saying a word. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to enquire of Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment’s pause, added: “My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?” She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went away. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for while there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen only at church. The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out: “What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.” “We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply. “Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?” Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s proficiency. “I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal.” “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice. She practises very constantly.” “So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room. She would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.” Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and made no answer. When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer’s countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said: “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.” “I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.” Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.” “I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly. “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.” “You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.” “I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.” “True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.” “Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.” “Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?” “I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.” “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.” “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.” Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.” Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy: “Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.” Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his cousin’s praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation. Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance, mixing with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home. Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only, entered the room. He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were to be within. They then sat down, and when her enquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed: “How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?” “Perfectly so, I thank you.” She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short pause added: “I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?” “I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.” “If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.” “I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.” Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to him. He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.” “I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.” “Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife.” “Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.” “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.” “An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.” “And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.” “I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_ of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled _near_ her family.” “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.” As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered: “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_ the present distance.” Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_ cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have been always at Longbourn.” Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice: “Are you pleased with Kent?” A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The _tête-à-tête_ surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away. “What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he was gone. “My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never have called on us in this familiar way.” But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and after various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she believed he might have the best informed mind. But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind. She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power. In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin could have none at all. More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales opposite the Parsonage. She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane’s last letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said: “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.” “I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?” “No, I should have turned in a moment.” And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage together. “Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she. “Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.” “And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.” “He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.” “In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?” “These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.” “Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do.” “Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.” “Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.” He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed, she soon afterwards said: “I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.” “No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.” “Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.” As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly replied: “You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.” “I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.” “Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.” “Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.” “What is it you mean?” “It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.” “You may depend upon my not mentioning it.” “And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.” “Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?” “I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.” “And what arts did he use to separate them?” “He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.” Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful. “I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?” “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?” “I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.” “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.” This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted. “There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words; and those strong objections probably were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in London. “To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—her understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought of her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend’s connections, than from their want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister. The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her staying at home. When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next—and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by all that affection could do. She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him. While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began: “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit. In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said: “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.” Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said: “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.” “I might as well enquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?” As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued: “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.” She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity. “Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated. With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been kinder than towards myself.” Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her. “But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?” “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour. “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?” “His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.” “And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.” “And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?” Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said: “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.” She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued: “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.” Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on: “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.” “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.” And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case—was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room. Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground. After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight. With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:— “Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice. “Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. “I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. “The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them. “With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. “Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this young man’s society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even another motive. “My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. “I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. “This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. “You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you. “FITZWILLIAM DARCY” If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence. But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham—when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”—and when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it again. In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole. The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham’s charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the ——shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration. She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_ struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that _he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son. How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance—an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued—that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling; that had his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd. “How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.” From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility. When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before. After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought—re-considering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation. She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object; she could think only of her letter. The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her. Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she have said? how would she have behaved?” were questions with which she amused herself. Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.” Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter. Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she added: “But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure.” “I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday.” “Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.” “But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.” “Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you—and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.” “You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan.” Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.” “My uncle is to send a servant for us.” “Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to.” Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections. Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there forever. Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family! When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful. Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there; and her ladyship again enquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh. When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her hand to both. On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary. “I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending your time unpleasantly.” Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_ feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling solemnity replied: “It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine’s family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.” Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences. “You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great attentions to Mrs. Collins you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate—but on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.” Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms. At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings. “But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here.” Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off. “Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have happened!” “A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh. “We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!” Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to conceal!” Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain a few days. Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation. It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further. It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up stairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and cucumber. After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?” “And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then, showing her purchases—“Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any better.” And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern, “Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the ——shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.” “Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction. “They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have!” “Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “_that_ would be a delightful scheme indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!” “Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital news—and about a certain person we all like!” Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said: “Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King. There’s for you! She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.” “And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune.” “She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.” “But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane. “I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared three straws about her—who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled thing?” Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal! As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it. “How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands, you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would _chaperon_ you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes on purpose to pass for a lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.” With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham’s name. Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth: “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.” Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her. “Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!” To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for _me_—I should infinitely prefer a book.” But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all. In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_ of the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account. She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last. Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself. Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have given him. “His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his disappointment!” “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?” “Blame you! Oh, no.” “But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?” “No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.” “But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very next day.” She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy’s vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one without involving the other. “This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy’s; but you shall do as you choose.” It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane. “I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.” “Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.” “Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!” “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.” “I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you used to do.” “And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.” “Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now.” “Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!” “How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly undeserved.” “Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.” Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?” “That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it.” “You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.” The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!” She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. “Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man—and I do not suppose there’s the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of everybody, too, who is likely to know.” “I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.” “Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.” But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, she made no answer. “Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_ housekeeping, I dare say.” “No, nothing at all.” “A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.” “It was a subject which they could not mention before me.” “No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.” The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the family. “Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?” Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years ago. “I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.” “I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia. “If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet. “Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.” “A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.” “And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,” added Kitty. Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend. But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_ months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_. The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish. “I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,” said she, “Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.” In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said: “Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.” “If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.” “Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.” “Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?” Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and affectionately taking her hand said in reply: “Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest of her life.” With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition. Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once. Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband’s never intending to go there himself. But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving home. Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference secured at any time by their renewal. On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he dined, with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some enquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former. He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment’s recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added: “How long did you say he was at Rosings?” “Nearly three weeks.” “And you saw him frequently?” “Yes, almost every day.” “His manners are very different from his cousin’s.” “Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.” “Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. “And pray, may I ask?—” But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.” “Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.” While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added: “When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.” Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents: “You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.” Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again. When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard. Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given. Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife. When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked forward with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity—to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect. “But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation.” When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less to be learnt—for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words to be made public. After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in Meryton. The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak. Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied—and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was soon right again. With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.” The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them, playing with them, and loving them. The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad. It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation. “My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know.” Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains. Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country.” Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private enquiries to the absence of the family were unfavourably answered. Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question—and her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent. Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. “And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,”—recollecting herself—“that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.” This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.” Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. “And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, “is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other—about eight years ago.” “I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.” Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. “Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.” “And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?” “Yes, very handsome.” “I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.” This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. “And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs. Gardiner. “Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her—a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him.” Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. “Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?” “Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.” “Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.” “If your master would marry, you might see more of him.” “Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.” Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.” “I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,” replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.” This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying: “There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master.” “Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.” Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she. “His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him—just as affable to the poor.” Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase. “He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.” “In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth. “This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.” “Perhaps we might be deceived.” “That is not very likely; our authority was too good.” On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley. “He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards one of the windows. Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.” The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible. In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father’s lifetime. There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression. When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door. As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables. They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil enquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his enquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts. At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave. The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such civility, to enquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account for it. They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure. At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself. They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of fashion.” The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_—it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.” After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.” Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?” The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle. “There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it.” “I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.” “To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so disagreeable?” Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning. “But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off his grounds.” Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but said nothing. “From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue.” Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on. Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning’s walk they had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many years’ discontinuance. The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister. Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her. She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse. Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable. Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such different feelings. They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley’s quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He enquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done. To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards each with an earnest though guarded enquiry; and they soon drew from those enquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of the lady’s sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough. Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased. In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before she could reply, he added, “It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.” Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which gave them meaning. It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage—the difference, the change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings. Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on. Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many enquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress. But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity; it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify enquiry. Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character from their own feelings and his servant’s report, without any reference to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor. With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged. As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of his addresses. It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s in coming to see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply. Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon. Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how much civility on that lady’s side the acquaintance would now be renewed. On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over the intermediate lawn. In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her. By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard. Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley’s voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold enquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal indifference and brevity, and the other said no more. The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table. While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to regret that he came. He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility: “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family.” In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave her a moment’s distress; but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend. Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on her more and more cheerfully. Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister. “How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.” However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer. “For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.” Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued: “I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘_She_ a beauty!—I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.” “Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but _that_ was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.” He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s beginning the subject. Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect: “Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written.” Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first. “By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.” “Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.” “Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.” Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly. On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.” “No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.” She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.” Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ might have prevented it! _I_ who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all—all too late now.” “I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it certain—absolutely certain?” “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland.” “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?” “My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!” Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence. “When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!” Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain. But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.” “Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.” He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away. As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination. If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise—if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey. She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it! She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy.— Though Lydia had never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; was it so?” “Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. _That_ is all settled.” “That is all settled;” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!” But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn. “I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they drove from the town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel’s family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate to the risk!” “Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment. “Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe him capable of it?” “Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been the case?” “In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland.” “Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the Barnet road.” “Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it might strike them that they could be more economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.” “But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His most particular friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father’s behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in such a matter.” “But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?” “It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman.” “But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.” “Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.” “And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive. “I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found her.” “But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem so well to understand?” “Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was far enough from my thoughts.” “When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?” “Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.” It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her mother’s apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives. “Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope everything will be well.” “Is my father in town?” “Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.” “And have you heard from him often?” “We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write again till he had something of importance to mention.” “And my mother—how is she? How are you all?” “My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well.” “But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you must have gone through!” Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owing. “If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do.” They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. “Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what is to be done.” “Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.” But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters. Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject. In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table: “This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation.” Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.” Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them. In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever.” “Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey.” “And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?” “Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying—and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.” “And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?” “How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks.” “But not before they went to Brighton?” “No, I believe not.” “And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?” “I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false.” “Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!” “Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.” “Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to his wife?” “He brought it with him for us to see.” Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents: “My dear Harriet, “You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign my name ‘Lydia Wickham.’ What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey. “Your affectionate friend, “LYDIA BENNET.” “Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!” “I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!” “Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?” “I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties.” “Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone.” “Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they should be of use to us.” “She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps she _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.” She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter. “He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady’s removing from one carriage into another might be remarked he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this.” The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off. When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband’s not being killed in a duel. Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening them up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them. All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister’s ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of them. Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now determined to enquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect: “I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other person.” Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in the ——shire might be able to give more information; and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a something to look forward to. Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning’s impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance. But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows: “My dear Sir, “I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent’s mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offense. “I am, dear sir, etc., etc.” Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations, for it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. “A gamester!” she cried. “This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.” Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his life had been before. “What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?” As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn. Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her return that could come from Pemberley. The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two. When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it. It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.” “You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth. “You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.” “Do you suppose them to be in London?” “Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?” “And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty. “She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence there will probably be of some duration.” Then after a short silence he continued: “Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.” They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother’s tea. “This is a parade,” he cried, “which does one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.” “I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If _I_ should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.” “_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.” Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry. “Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them.” Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.” “What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.” “Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.” Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler, who said: “If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards the little copse.” Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock. Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out: “Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?” “Yes I have had a letter from him by express.” “Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?” “What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.” Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up. “Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself what it is about.” “Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August_ 2. “My dear Brother, “At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen them both—” “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are married!” Elizabeth read on: “I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham’s circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more is determined on. Yours, etc., “EDW. GARDINER.” “Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it be possible that he will marry her?” “Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.” “And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth. “No; but it must be done soon.” Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he wrote. “Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a case.” “Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble yourself.” “I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.” And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. “And may I ask—” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with.” “Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.” “And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!” “Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever to pay him.” “Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?” “I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am gone.” “That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.” “No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.” “Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?” Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. “And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!” “I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?” “If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,” said Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!” “We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten.” “Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.” It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly replied: “Just as you please.” “May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?” “Take whatever you like, and get away.” Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. “My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!” Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all under. “For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.” “Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.” She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head. “I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.” Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom. Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained. Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband might then have rested in its proper place. He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could. When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband’s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income. Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her through her mother’s hands, Lydia’s expenses had been very little within that sum. That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her. The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery was considered certain. It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance. “Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.” Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: “Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.” A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took place. Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot. She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister’s frailty would have mortified her so much—not, however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned. From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet. What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph. She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family. How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture. Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet’s acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the militia. “It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his account and my niece’s. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention to go into the regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General ——’s regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and her mother.—Yours, etc., “E. GARDINER.” Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s removal from the ——shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody, and had so many favourites. “She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ——’s regiment.” His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being admitted into her family again before she set off for the North, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object of her wishes. Their sister’s wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet them at ——, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_ been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure. They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy. Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness. Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there. Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour. There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world. “Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.” Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.” Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman.” It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids. “Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.” “Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?” “Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.” “I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother. “And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over.” “I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.” Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not. Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the country. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth: “Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?” “No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little said on the subject.” “La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.” “Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he _had_ been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.” “Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. “Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!” “If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.” “Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will ask you no questions.” “Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry.” On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power, by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended. “You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.” “Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she finished the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out.” Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of it;—till it appeared whether her enquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante. Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial. “Gracechurch Street, _Sept_. 6. “My dear Niece, “I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_. Don’t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit. “On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us. “There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in —— street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia’s flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on. “Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief. “They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable. “Everything being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy’s next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further enquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business. “On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together. “They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times, but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most readily have settled the whole. “They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most. “You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody’s_ reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for _another interest_ in the affair. “When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish. “I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. “Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach him. I thought him very sly;—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. “Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very thing. “But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half hour. “Yours, very sincerely, “M. GARDINER.” The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her—for a woman who had already refused him—as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself. She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one’s approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken by Wickham. “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” said he, as he joined her. “You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.” “I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends; and now we are better.” “True. Are the others coming out?” “I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.” She replied in the affirmative. “I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.” “Yes, she did.” “And what did she say?” “That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not turned out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely misrepresented.” “Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said: “I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.” “Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at this time of year.” “Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.” “Yes; he introduced us to his sister.” “And do you like her?” “Very much.” “I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.” “I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.” “Did you go by the village of Kympton?” “I do not recollect that we did.” “I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect.” “How should you have liked making sermons?” “Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?” “I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.” “You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the first, you may remember.” “I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly.” “You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.” They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to provoke him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile: “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind.” She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house. Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet. The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth. “Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?” “Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.” “Write to me very often, my dear.” “As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to do.” Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things. “He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.” The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days. “I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.” “This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single.” “It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married, but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.” But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and shook her head by turns. “Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?” “You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.” Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said: “I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don’t imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of _myself_, but I dread other people’s remarks.” Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming there _with_ his friend’s permission, or being bold enough to come without it. “Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.” In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them. The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again. “As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you will wait on him of course.” “No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand again.” His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to Netherfield. “’Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend _my_ hours in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back again.” “Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for him.” Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her husband’s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before _they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,— “I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her sister. “It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!” “I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth; “but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have always so much.” Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride towards the house. Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to the window—she looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down again by her sister. “There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it be?” “Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not know.” “La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.” “Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.” Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs. Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire. The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure. “Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be early enough for expectation.” She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance. Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother’s presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture. Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his friend. Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill applied. Darcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends, when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry with herself for being so. “Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he come?” She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to him she had hardly courage to speak. She enquired after his sister, but could do no more. “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet. He readily agreed to it. “I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?” Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell. “It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,” continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving the ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves.” Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he believed. “When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her mother, “I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you.” Elizabeth’s misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful confusion. “The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either one or the other again!” Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she was silent. When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time. “You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement.” Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away. Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there that day; but, though she alwa'

'*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES *** cover The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle Contents I. A Scandal in Bohemia II. The Red-Headed League III. A Case of Identity IV. The Boscombe Valley Mystery V. The Five Orange Pips VI. The Man with the Twisted Lip VII. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle VIII. The Adventure of the Speckled Band IX. The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb X. The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor XI. The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet XII. The Adventure of the Copper Beeches I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA I. To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion. One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own. His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion. “Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.” “Seven!” I answered. “Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.” “Then, how do you know?” “I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?” “My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.” He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together. “It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.” I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.” “Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.” “Frequently.” “How often?” “Well, some hundreds of times.” “Then how many are there?” “How many? I don’t know.” “Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.” The note was undated, and without either signature or address. “There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.” “This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it means?” “I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?” I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written. “The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.” “Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.” I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper. “What do you make of that?” asked Holmes. “The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.” “Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette. “The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said. “Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.” As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled. “A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.” “I think that I had better go, Holmes.” “Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.” “But your client—” “Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.” A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap. “Come in!” said Holmes. A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy. “You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address. “Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?” “You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.” I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.” The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.” “I promise,” said Holmes. “And I.” “You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.” “I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly. “The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.” “I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. “If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.” The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?” “Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.” “But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come _incognito_ from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.” “Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more. “The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.” “Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes. “Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.” “Precisely so. But how—” “Was there a secret marriage?” “None.” “No legal papers or certificates?” “None.” “Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?” “There is the writing.” “Pooh, pooh! Forgery.” “My private note-paper.” “Stolen.” “My own seal.” “Imitated.” “My photograph.” “Bought.” “We were both in the photograph.” “Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.” “I was mad—insane.” “You have compromised yourself seriously.” “I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.” “It must be recovered.” “We have tried and failed.” “Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.” “She will not sell.” “Stolen, then.” “Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result.” “No sign of it?” “Absolutely none.” Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he. “But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully. “Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?” “To ruin me.” “But how?” “I am about to be married.” “So I have heard.” “To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.” “And Irene Adler?” “Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go—none.” “You are sure that she has not sent it yet?” “I am sure.” “And why?” “Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.” “Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?” “Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.” “Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.” “Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.” “Then, as to money?” “You have _carte blanche_.” “Absolutely?” “I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.” “And for present expenses?” The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table. “There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said. Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it to him. “And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked. “Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.” Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the photograph a cabinet?” “It was.” “Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you.” II. At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head. It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes. “Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair. “What is it?” “It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.” “I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.” “Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a _bijou_ villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest. “I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to.” “And what of Irene Adler?” I asked. “Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign. “This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation.” “I am following you closely,” I answered. “I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached—evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home. “He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, ‘Drive like the devil,’ he shouted, ‘first to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!’ “Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for. “‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ “This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind. “My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me. “‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’ “‘What then?’ I asked. “‘Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’ “I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion.” “This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “and what then?” “Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. ‘I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements.” “Which are?” “Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the bell. “I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation.” “I shall be delighted.” “You don’t mind breaking the law?” “Not in the least.” “Nor running a chance of arrest?” “Not in a good cause.” “Oh, the cause is excellent!” “Then I am your man.” “I was sure that I might rely on you.” “But what is it you wish?” “When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you. Now,” he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, “I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.” “And what then?” “You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?” “I am to be neutral?” “To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window.” “Yes.” “You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.” “Yes.” “And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?” “Entirely.” “It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. “It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?” “I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street.” “Precisely.” “Then you may entirely rely on me.” “That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare for the new role I have to play.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime. It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’ succinct description, but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths. “You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house, “this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?” “Where, indeed?” “It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman’s dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her.” “Where, then?” “Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house.” “But it has twice been burgled.” “Pshaw! They did not know how to look.” “But how will you look?” “I will not look.” “What then?” “I will get her to show me.” “But she will refuse.” “She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter.” As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street. “Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked. “He is dead,” cried several voices. “No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be gone before you can get him to hospital.” “He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.” “He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?” “Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!” Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from injuring another. Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant maids—joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road. “You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been better. It is all right.” “You have the photograph?” “I know where it is.” “And how did you find out?” “She showed me, as I told you she would.” “I am still in the dark.” “I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.” “I guessed as much.” “Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.” “That also I could fathom.” “Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance.” “How did that help you?” “It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all.” “And now?” I asked. “Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own hands.” “And when will you call?” “At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without delay.” We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said: “Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.” There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by. “I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been.” III. I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room. “You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face. “Not yet.” “But you have hopes?” “I have hopes.” “Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.” “We must have a cab.” “No, my brougham is waiting.” “Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once more for Briony Lodge. “Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes. “Married! When?” “Yesterday.” “But to whom?” “To an English lawyer named Norton.” “But she could not love him.” “I am in hopes that she does.” “And why in hopes?” “Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty’s plan.” “It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue. The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she. “I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze. “Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.” “What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?” “Never to return.” “And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.” “We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way: “MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that, if the King employed an agent, it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed. “Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband. “We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, “Very truly yours, “IRENE NORTON, _née_ ADLER.” “What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?” “From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more successful conclusion.” “On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.” “I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.” “I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring—” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand. “Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said Holmes. “You have but to name it.” “This photograph!” The King stared at him in amazement. “Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.” “I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good morning.” He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of _the_ woman. II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. “You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially. “I was afraid that you were engaged.” “So I am. Very much so.” “Then I can wait in the next room.” “Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.” The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. “Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.” “Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed. “You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination.” “A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.” “You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.” The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance. I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features. Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.” Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion. “How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.” “Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.” “Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?” “I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.” “Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?” “What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk?” “Well, but China?” “The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.” Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.” “I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. ‘_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_,’ you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?” “Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.” I took the paper from him and read as follows: “TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of £ 4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.” “What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement. Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.” “It is _The Morning Chronicle_ of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.” “Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?” “Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business.” “What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes. “His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?” “Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an _employé_ who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement.” “Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.” “He is still with you, I presume?” “Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place clean—that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more. “The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says: “‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’ “‘Why that?’ I asks. “‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.’ “‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news. “‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes open. “‘Never.’ “‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’ “‘And what are they worth?’ I asked. “‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’ “Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy. “‘Tell me all about it,’ said I. “‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.’ “‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’ “‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’ “Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement. “I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were—straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office.” “Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting statement.” “There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us. “‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.’ “‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success. “‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager. “‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’ “I answered that I had not. “His face fell immediately. “‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’ “My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all right. “‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’ “‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I. “‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to look after that for you.’ “‘What would be the hours?’ I asked. “‘Ten to two.’ “Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up. “‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’ “‘Is £ 4 a week.’ “‘And the work?’ “‘Is purely nominal.’ “‘What do you call purely nominal?’ “‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’ “‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said I. “‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’ “‘And the work?’ “‘Is to copy out the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. There is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’ “‘Certainly,’ I answered. “‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune. “Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope’s Court. “Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me. “This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it. “Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.” “To an end?” “Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.” He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion: “THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890.” Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter. “I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.” “No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?” “I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him. “‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’ “‘What, the red-headed man?’ “‘Yes.’ “‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’ “‘Where could I find him?’ “‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’ “I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.” “And what did you do then?” asked Holmes. “I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you.” “And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.” “Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a week.” “As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £ 30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.” “No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds.” “We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement—how long had he been with you?” “About a month then.” “How did he come?” “In answer to an advertisement.” “Was he the only applicant?” “No, I had a dozen.” “Why did you pick him?” “Because he was handy and would come cheap.” “At half wages, in fact.” “Yes.” “What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?” “Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.” Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?” “Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad.” “Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?” “Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.” “And has your business been attended to in your absence?” “Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.” “That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.” “Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all?” “I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.” “As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.” “What are you going to do, then?” I asked. “To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece. “Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?” “I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.” “Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!” We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in. “Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the Strand.” “Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door. “Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before.” “Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.” “Not him.” “What then?” “The knees of his trousers.” “And what did you see?” “What I expected to see.” “Why did you beat the pavement?” “My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.” The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted. “Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.” My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down. “You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged. “Yes, it would be as well.” “And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.” “Why serious?” “A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.” “At what time?” “Ten will be early enough.” “I shall be at Baker Street at ten.” “Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd. I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the _Encyclopædia_ down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation. It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat. “Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.” “We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.” “I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily. “You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force.” “Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber.” “I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some £ 30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.” “John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.” “I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.” Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street. “We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.” We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes. “You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern and gazed about him. “Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise. “I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?” The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket. “We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present.” “It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.” “Your French gold?” “Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject.” “Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.” “And sit in the dark?” “I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a _partie carrée_, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.” I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault. “They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?” “I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.” “Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.” What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones. Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair. “It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!” Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. “It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at all.” “So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.” “There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes. “Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.” “And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.” “You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.” “I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’” “All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?” “That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective. “Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.” “I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.” “You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the _Encyclopædia_, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £ 4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.” “But how could you guess what the motive was?” “Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar—something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building. “So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.” “And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked. “Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.” “You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.” “It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so.” “And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he remarked. “‘_L’homme c’est rien—l’œuvre c’est tout_,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.” III. A CASE OF IDENTITY “My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most _outré_ results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.” “And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic.” “A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.” I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so,” I said. “Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here”—I picked up the morning paper from the ground—“let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. ‘A husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude.” “Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,” said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example.” He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it. “Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers.” “And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger. “It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems.” “And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with interest. “Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.” He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell. “I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. “Oscillation upon the pavement always means an _affaire de cœur_. She would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts.” As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him. “Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?” “I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the letters are without looking.” Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve heard about me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how could you know all that?” “Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?” “I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I’m not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.” “Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling. Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said, “for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank—that is, my father—took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you.” “Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since the name is different.” “Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself.” “And your mother is alive?” “Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father’s death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got £ 4700 for the goodwill and interest, which wasn’t near as much as father could have got if he had been alive.” I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention. “Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come out of the business?” “Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.” “You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about £ 60.” “I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as long as I live at home I don’t wish to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.” “You have made your position very clear to me,” said Holmes. “This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.” A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. “I met him first at the gasfitters’ ball,” she said. “They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all father’s friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel.” “I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr. Windibank came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.” “Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way.” “I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel.” “Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more.” “No?” “Well, you know father didn’t like anything of the sort. He wouldn’t have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet.” “But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?” “Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for father to know.” “Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?” “Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street—and—” “What office?” “That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.” “Where did he live, then?” “He slept on the premises.” “And you don’t know his address?” “No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.” “Where did you address your letters, then?” “To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of.” “It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?” “He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare.” “Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned to France?” “Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn’t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn’t want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding.” “It missed him, then?” “Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived.” “Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?” “Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, near King’s Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him.” “It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said Holmes. “Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it.” “Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?” “Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened.” “But you have no notion as to what it could have been?” “None.” “One more question. How did your mother take the matter?” “She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again.” “And your father? Did you tell him?” “Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can’t sleep a wink at night.” She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob heavily into it. “I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life.” “Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?” “I fear not.” “Then what has happened to him?” “You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can spare.” “I advertised for him in last Saturday’s _Chronicle_,” said she. “Here is the slip and here are four letters from him.” “Thank you. And your address?” “No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.” “Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand. Where is your father’s place of business?” “He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of Fenchurch Street.” “Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life.” “You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back.” For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned. Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face. “Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.” “You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me,” I remarked. “Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.” “Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.” Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled. “’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.” “It surprised me.” “But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry.” “And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend’s incisive reasoning. “I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?” I held the little printed slip to the light. “Missing,” it said, “on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing,” &c, &c. “That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued, glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.” “They are typewritten,” I remarked. “Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it conclusive.” “Of what?” “My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case?” “I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted.” “No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim.” I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel. I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland. A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o’clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the _dénouement_ of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him. “Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered. “Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.” “No, no, the mystery!” I cried. “Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.” “Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?” The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap at the door. “This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!” The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair. “Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o’clock?” “Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?” “On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.” Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the ‘r.’ There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious.” “We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes. “And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the ‘e’s’ slurred and the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well.” Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it.” “Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. “I let you know, then, that I have caught him!” “What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap. “Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes suavely. “There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That’s right! Sit down and let us talk it over.” Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. “It—it’s not actionable,” he stammered. “I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.” The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us. “The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,” said he, “and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself.” “It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought that she would have been so carried away.” “Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl’s affections from turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady’s mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!” Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face. “It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but if you are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint.” “The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, “yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man’s face, “it is not part of my duties to my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to—” He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road. “There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more. “That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest.” “I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,” I remarked. “Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction.” “And how did you verify them?” “Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect with that of their employé, James Windibank. _Voilà tout_!” “And Miss Sutherland?” “If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’ There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.” IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way: “Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15.” “What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will you go?” “I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present.” “Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ cases.” “I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour.” My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap. “It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.” We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack. “Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked. “Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.” “The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult.” “That sounds a little paradoxical.” “But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man.” “It is a murder, then?” “Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a very few words. “Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts. “On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive. “From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred. “The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son’s gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of ‘wilful murder’ having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police-court.” “I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.” “Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes thoughtfully. “It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home.” “I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of this case.” “There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered, laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that.” “How on earth—” “My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my _métier_, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering.” “What are they?” “It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner’s jury.” “It was a confession,” I ejaculated. “No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.” “Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious remark.” “On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty one.” I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,” I remarked. “So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.” “What is the young man’s own account of the matter?” “It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it for yourself.” He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way: “Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave evidence as follows: ‘I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of “Cooee!” which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner’s lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.’ “The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died? “Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a rat. “The Coroner: What did you understand by that? “Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious. “The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel? “Witness: I should prefer not to answer. “The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it. “Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed. “The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise. “Witness: I must still refuse. “The Coroner: I understand that the cry of ‘Cooee’ was a common signal between you and your father? “Witness: It was. “The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol? “Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know. “A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured? “Witness: Nothing definite. “The Coroner: What do you mean? “Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was gone. “‘Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?’ “‘Yes, it was gone.’ “ ‘You cannot say what it was?’ “‘No, I had a feeling something was there.’ “‘How far from the body?’ “‘A dozen yards or so.’ “‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’ “‘About the same.’ “‘Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of it?’ “‘Yes, but with my back towards it.’ “This concluded the examination of the witness.” “I see,” said I as I glanced down the column, “that the coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father’s dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the son.” Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat. “Both you and the coroner have been at some pains,” said he, “to single out the very strongest points in the young man’s favour. Don’t you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so _outré_ as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes.” It was nearly four o’clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us. “I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea. “I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime.” “It was very nice and complimentary of you,” Holmes answered. “It is entirely a question of barometric pressure.” Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said. “How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night.” Lestrade laughed indulgently. “You have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions from the newspapers,” he said. “The case is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can’t refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door.” He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern. “Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally, with a woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, “I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn’t do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.” “I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You may rely upon my doing all that I can.” “But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?” “I think that it is very probable.” “There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. “You hear! He gives me hopes.” Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions,” he said. “But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it.” “In what way?” asked Holmes. “It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and—and—well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them.” “And your father?” asked Holmes. “Was he in favour of such a union?” “No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of it.” A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her. “Thank you for this information,” said he. “May I see your father if I call to-morrow?” “I am afraid the doctor won’t allow it.” “The doctor?” “Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria.” “Ha! In Victoria! That is important.” “Yes, at the mines.” “Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money.” “Yes, certainly.” “Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me.” “You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent.” “I will, Miss Turner.” “I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.” She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street. “I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade with dignity after a few minutes’ silence. “Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel.” “I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said Holmes. “Have you an order to see him in prison?” “Yes, but only for you and me.” “Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?” “Ample.” “Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours.” I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man’s story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon’s deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes’ attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade’s opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes’ insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence. It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town. “The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down. “It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy.” “And what did you learn from him?” “Nothing.” “Could he throw no light?” “None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart.” “I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner.” “Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered.” “But if he is innocent, who has done it?” “Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry ‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow.” There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool. “There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of.” “An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes. “About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free.” “Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes. “Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him.” “Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner’s daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?” “We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade, winking at me. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies.” “You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very hard to tackle the facts.” “Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of,” replied Lestrade with some warmth. “And that is—” “That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine.” “Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing. “But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left.” “Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes’ request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son’s, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool. Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end. The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner’s dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion. “What did you go into the pool for?” he asked. “I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth—” “Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet.” He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost. “It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked, returning to his natural manner. “I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.” It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood. “This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out. “The murder was done with it.” “I see no marks.” “There are none.” “How do you know, then?” “The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.” “And the murderer?” “Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search.” Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he said. “Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury.” “_Nous verrons_,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your own method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train.” “And leave your case unfinished?” “No, finished.” “But the mystery?” “It is solved.” “Who was the criminal, then?” “The gentleman I describe.” “But who is he?” “Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighbourhood.” Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said, “and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.” “All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.” Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position. “Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared “just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’t know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me expound.” “Pray do so.” “Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy’s narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry ‘Cooee!’ before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son’s ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true.” “What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?” “Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But ‘Cooee’ is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia.” “What of the rat, then?” Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. “This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said. “I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand over part of the map. “What do you read?” “ARAT,” I read. “And now?” He raised his hand. “BALLARAT.” “Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.” “It is wonderful!” I exclaimed. “It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which, granting the son’s statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.” “Certainly.” “And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly wander.” “Quite so.” “Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal.” “But how did you gain them?” “You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.” “His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces.” “Yes, they were peculiar boots.” “But his lameness?” “The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped—he was lame.” “But his left-handedness.” “You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam.” “And the cigar-holder?” “I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife.” “Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is—” “Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor. The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease. “Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my note?” “Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal.” “I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.” “And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered. “Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is so. I know all about McCarthy.” The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.” “I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely. “I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested.” “It may not come to that,” said Holmes. “What?” “I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however.” “I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.” Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.” “It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell. “You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power. “It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang. “One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me. “I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot. “‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the arm; ‘we’ll be as good as a family to you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don’t—it’s a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there’s always a policeman within hail.’ “Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice. “His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over. “When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred.” “Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. “I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation.” “I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?” “In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us.” “Farewell, then,” said the old man solemnly. “Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine.” Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room. “God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence. “Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter’s words, and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’” James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past. V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years ’82 and ’90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up. The year ’87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British barque _Sophy Anderson_, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time—a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe. It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street. “Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?” “Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage visitors.” “A client, then?” “If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady’s.” Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit. “Come in!” said he. The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety. “I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber.” “Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the south-west, I see.” “Yes, from Horsham.” “That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive.” “I have come for advice.” “That is easily got.” “And help.” “That is not always so easy.” “I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.” “Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.” “He said that you could solve anything.” “He said too much.” “That you are never beaten.” “I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a woman.” “But what is that compared with the number of your successes?” “It is true that I have been generally successful.” “Then you may be so with me.” “I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as to your case.” “It is no ordinary one.” “None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.” “And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my own family.” “You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important.” The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze. “My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair. “You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence. “My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own brother. “He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such a room. “One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’ “‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried. “‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other. “‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’ “I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope. “‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’ “I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin. “Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some £ 14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.” “One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.” “The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2nd.” “Thank you. Pray proceed.” “When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’ written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North. “Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of ’85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself. “‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered. “My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I. “He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them?’ “‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder. “‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked. “‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must be those that are destroyed.’ “‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come from?’ “‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark. “‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’ “‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said. “‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’ “‘Then let me do so?’ “‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’ “It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings. “On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him. “In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another. “It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.” The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips. “This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’” “What have you done?” asked Holmes. “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against.” “Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.” “I have seen the police.” “Ah!” “But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.” Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he cried. “They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me.” “Has he come with you to-night?” “No. His orders were to stay in the house.” Again Holmes raved in the air. “Why did you come to me?” he said, “and, above all, why did you not come at once?” “I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.” “It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?” “There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.” Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical notices: “4th. Hudson came. Same old platform. “7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain of St. Augustine. “9th. McCauley cleared. “10th. John Swain cleared. “12th. Visited Paramore. All well.” “Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and act.” “What shall I do?” “There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?” “Entirely.” “Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.” “I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. “You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.” “Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?” “By train from Waterloo.” “It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.” “I am armed.” “That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.” “I shall see you at Horsham, then?” “No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.” “Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.” He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements—blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more. Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling. “I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have had none more fantastic than this.” “Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.” “Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.” “But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?” “There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered. “Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this unhappy family?” Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and encyclopædias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion.” “Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis.” Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the _American Encyclopædia_ which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?” “The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London.” “From East London. What do you deduce from that?” “They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.” “Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything?” “A greater distance to travel.” “But the letter had also a greater distance to come.” “Then I do not see the point.” “There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer.” “It is possible.” “More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay.” “Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?” “The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society.” “But of what society?” “Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice—“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?” “I never have.” Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,” said he presently: “‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the United States government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’ “You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered.” “Then the page we have seen—” “Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the pips to A, B, and C’—that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow men.” It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down. “You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.” “What steps will you take?” I asked. “It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all.” “You will not go there first?” “No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee.” As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart. “Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.” “Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved. “My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account: “‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’” We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him. “That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands. “They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!” “To the police?” “No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before.” All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water. “You are hungry,” I remarked. “Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast.” “Nothing?” “Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.” “And how have you succeeded?” “Well.” “You have a clue?” “I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!” “What do you mean?” He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Barque _Lone Star_, Savannah, Georgia.” “That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him.” “And who is this Captain Calhoun?” “The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.” “How did you trace it, then?” He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names. “I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the _Lone Star_, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union.” “Texas, I think.” “I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American origin.” “What then?” “I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque _Lone Star_ was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London.” “Yes?” “The _Lone Star_ had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight.” “What will you do, then?” “Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder.” There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the _Lone Star_ of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the _Lone Star_. VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man. One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment. “A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.” I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day. We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room. “You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried; “I do so want a little help.” “Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.” “I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse. “It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?” “Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!” It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her? It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him? There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be. But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship. Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire. As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth. “Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.” There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me. “My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?” “Nearly eleven.” “Of what day?” “Of Friday, June 19th.” “Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key. “I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!” “So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?” “Yes, I have one waiting.” “Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.” I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility. “Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?” “As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.” “I have a cab outside.” “Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.” It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter. “I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views.” “I was certainly surprised to find you there.” “But not more so than I to find you.” “I came to find a friend.” “And I to find an enemy.” “An enemy?” “Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.” “What! You do not mean bodies?” “Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £ 1000 for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.” He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs. “Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” “If I can be of use.” “Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.” “The Cedars?” “Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.” “Where is it, then?” “Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.” “But I am all in the dark.” “Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!” He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best. “You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door.” “You forget that I know nothing about it.” “I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.” “Proceed, then.” “Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £ 88 10_s_., while he has £ 220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind. “Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company’s office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?” “It is very clear.” “If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie. “Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps—for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night—and running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children’s bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home. “This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy. “And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman’s clothes. “So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest.” “But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?” “He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.” “Pray continue your narrative.” “Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue. “And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the pockets?” “I cannot imagine.” “No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.” “But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?” “No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat’s sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.” “It certainly sounds feasible.” “Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved—what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.” While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows. “We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse’s feet.” “But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” I asked. “Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!” We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question. “Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “No good news?” “None.” “No bad?” “No.” “Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a long day.” “This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation.” “I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly. “You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us.” “My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy.” “Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, “I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.” “Certainly, madam.” “Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.” “Upon what point?” “In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?” Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly, now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair. “Frankly, then, madam, I do not.” “You think that he is dead?” “I do.” “Murdered?” “I don’t say that. Perhaps.” “And on what day did he meet his death?” “On Monday.” “Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day.” Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised. “What!” he roared. “Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air. “May I see it?” “Certainly.” He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight. “Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your husband’s writing, madam.” “No, but the enclosure is.” “I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.” “How can you tell that?” “The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!” “Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.” “And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?” “One of his hands.” “One?” “His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well.” “‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?” “None. Neville wrote those words.” “And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.” “But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.” “Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.” “No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!” “Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day.” “That is possible.” “If so, much may have happened between.” “Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?” “I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?” “I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.” “And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?” “No.” “And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?” “Very much so.” “Was the window open?” “Yes.” “Then he might have called to you?” “He might.” “He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?” “Yes.” “A call for help, you thought?” “Yes. He waved his hands.” “But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?” “It is possible.” “And you thought he was pulled back?” “He disappeared so suddenly.” “He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?” “No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.” “Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?” “But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.” “Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?” “Never.” “Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?” “Never.” “Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.” A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night. “Awake, Watson?” he asked. “Yes.” “Game for a morning drive?” “Certainly.” “Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night. As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse. “I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.” “And where is it?” I asked, smiling. “In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.” We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream. “It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.” In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in. “Who is on duty?” asked Holmes. “Inspector Bradstreet, sir.” “Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.” “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.” It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?” “I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.” “Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.” “So I heard. You have him here?” “In the cells.” “Is he quiet?” “Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.” “Dirty?” “Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it.” “I should like to see him very much.” “Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag.” “No, I think that I’ll take it.” “Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side. “The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through. “He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.” We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead. “He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector. “He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge. “He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector. “Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.” “Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?” He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face. “Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent.” Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow. “Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the photograph.” The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?” “With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake.” “If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.” “No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes. “You would have done better to have trusted your wife.” “It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure! What can I do?” Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder. “If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.” “God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children. “You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26_s_. 4_d_. “I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for £ 25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt. “Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at £ 2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession. “Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £ 700 a year—which is less than my average takings—but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take £ 2. “As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what. “Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer. “I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.” “That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes. “Good God! What a week she must have spent!” “The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days.” “That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?” “Many times; but what was a fine to me?” “It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.” “I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.” “In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.” “I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.” VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination. “You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.” “Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat—“but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.” I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.” “No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.” “So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.” “Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?” “Yes.” “It is to him that this trophy belongs.” “It is his hat.” “No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.” “Which surely he restored to their owner?” “My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.” “What, then, did Peterson do?” “He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.” “Did he not advertise?” “No.” “Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?” “Only as much as we can deduce.” “From his hat?” “Precisely.” “But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?” “Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?” I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink. “I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend. “On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.” “Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?” He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him.” “My dear Holmes!” “He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.” “You are certainly joking, Holmes.” “Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?” “I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?” For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have something in it.” “The decline of his fortunes, then?” “This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.” “Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?” Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.” “Your reasoning is certainly plausible.” “The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training.” “But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.” “This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.” “But he might be a bachelor.” “Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.” “You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?” “One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?” “Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.” Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment. “The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped. “Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man’s excited face. “See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand. Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he, “this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?” “A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty.” “It’s more than a precious stone. It is _the_ precious stone.” “Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated. “Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in _The Times_ every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of £ 1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price.” “A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us. “That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the gem.” “It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I remarked. “Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph: “Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court.” “Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods.” “What will you say?” “Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.’ That is clear and concise.” “Very. But will he see it?” “Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.” “In which, sir?” “Oh, in the _Globe_, _Star_, _Pall Mall_, _St. James’s Gazette_, _Evening News_, _Standard_, _Echo_, and any others that occur to you.” “Very well, sir. And this stone?” “Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring.” When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it.” “Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?” “I cannot tell.” “Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?” “It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement.” “And you can do nothing until then?” “Nothing.” “In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business.” “Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop.” I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes’ room. “Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?” “Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.” He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune. “We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise.” Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them.” “Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it.” “To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement. “Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?” “Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief. “Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish—” The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what use the _disjecta membra_ of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.” Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose.” “Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way. “So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?” “Not particularly.” “Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot.” “By all means.” It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord. “Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said he. “My geese!” The man seemed surprised. “Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club.” “Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not _our_ geese.” “Indeed! Whose, then?” “Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.” “Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?” “Breckinridge is his name.” “Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night.” “Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!” We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up the shutters. “Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes. The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion. “Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble. “Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.” “That’s no good.” “Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.” “Ah, but I was recommended to you.” “Who by?” “The landlord of the Alpha.” “Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.” “Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?” To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman. “Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.” “It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.” “Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!” “Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.” “Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.” “Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred.” “Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the salesman. “It’s nothing of the kind.” “I say it is.” “I don’t believe it.” “D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred.” “You’ll never persuade me to believe that.” “Will you bet, then?” “It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.” The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he. The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp. “Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?” “Well?” “That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.” “Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes. “Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.” Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’” “Now, then, what’s the last entry?” “‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7_s_. 6_d_.’” “Quite so. There you are. And underneath?” “‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12_s_.’” “What have you to say now?” Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him. “When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’ protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I daresay that if I had put £ 100 down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—” His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure. “I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?” “No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man. “Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.” “She told me to ask you.” “Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness. “Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face. “Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice. “You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you.” “You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?” “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.” “But you can know nothing of this?” “Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.” “Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.” Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.” The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered with a sidelong glance. “No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward doing business with an alias.” A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said he, “my real name is James Ryder.” “Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know.” The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him. “Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?” “Yes, sir.” “Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which you were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.” Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it went to?” “It came here.” “Here?” “Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum.” Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it. “The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!” For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser. “I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?” “It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling voice. “I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then—” Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!” “Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.” “I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down.” “Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety.” Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do. “I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived. “My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others. “‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she. “‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.’ “‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’ “‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d rather have that one I was handling just now.’ “‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for you.’ “‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I. “‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want, then?’ “‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.’ “‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’ “Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there. “‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried. “‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’ “‘Which dealer’s?’ “‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’ “‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’ “‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.’ “Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands. There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door. “Get out!” said he. “What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!” “No more words. Get out!” And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street. “After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature.” VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth. It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits. “Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you.” “What is it, then—a fire?” “No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.” “My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.” I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered. “Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.” “It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested. “What, then?” “It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances. “You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see.” “You know me, then?” “No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.” The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion. “There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.” “Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.” Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted. “Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.” “Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.” “I am all attention, madam.” “My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.” Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he. “The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man. “When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less than £ 1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness. “But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger. “Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master. “You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has.” “Your sister is dead, then?” “She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.” Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor. “Pray be precise as to details,” said he. “It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?” “Perfectly so.” “The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back. “‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the night?’ “‘Never,’ said I. “‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?’ “‘Certainly not. But why?’ “‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it.’ “‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’ “‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.’ “‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’ “‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock.” “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?” “Always.” “And why?” “I think that I mentioned to you that the Doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.” “Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.” “I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the Doctor’s room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister.” “One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?” “That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.” “Was your sister dressed?” “No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.” “Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?” “He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her.” “How about poison?” “The doctors examined her for it, but without success.” “What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?” “It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.” “Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?” “Yes, there are nearly always some there.” “Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled band?” “Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used.” Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied. “These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your narrative.” “Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice.” “You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?” “Yes, all.” “Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.” “Why, what do you mean?” For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist. “You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes. The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.” There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire. “This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?” “As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.” “Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?” “By no means.” “Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?” “I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there in time for your coming.” “And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?” “No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided from the room. “And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair. “It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.” “Dark enough and sinister enough.” “Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end.” “What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?” “I cannot think.” “When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines.” “But what, then, did the gipsies do?” “I cannot imagine.” “I see many objections to any such theory.” “And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!” The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey. “Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition. “My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion quietly. “I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.” “Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.” “I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?” “It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes. “What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously. “But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my companion imperturbably. “Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.” My friend smiled. “Holmes, the busybody!” His smile broadened. “Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!” Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,” said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught.” “I will go when I have had my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands. “See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room. “He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again. “Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’ Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter.” It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures. “I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the time of the wife’s death was little short of £ 1,100, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £ 750. Each daughter can claim an income of £ 250, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.” At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows. “Look there!” said he. A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion. “Stoke Moran?” said he. “Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the driver. “There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we are going.” “There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.” “And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.” We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead. “I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word.” Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening.” “We have had the pleasure of making the Doctor’s acquaintance,” said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened. “Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.” “So it appears.” “He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns?” “He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine.” The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows. “This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott’s chamber?” “Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.” “Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.” “There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room.” “Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course?” “Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.” “As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar your shutters?” Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!” said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter.” A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment. “Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last pointing to a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow. “It goes to the housekeeper’s room.” “It looks newer than the other things?” “Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.” “Your sister asked for it, I suppose?” “No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we wanted for ourselves.” “Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug. “Why, it’s a dummy,” said he. “Won’t it ring?” “No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is.” “How very absurd! I never noticed that before.” “Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!” “That is also quite modern,” said the lady. “Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes. “Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.” “They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment.” Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the keenest interest. “What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe. “My stepfather’s business papers.” “Oh! you have seen inside, then?” “Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.” “There isn’t a cat in it, for example?” “No. What a strange idea!” “Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on the top of it. “No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.” “Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention. “Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!” The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord. “What do you make of that, Watson?” “It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.” “That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.” I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie. “It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect.” “I shall most certainly do so.” “The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance.” “I assure you that I am in your hands.” “In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room.” Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment. “Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over there?” “Yes, that is the Crown.” “Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?” “Certainly.” “You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night.” “Oh, yes, easily.” “The rest you will leave in our hands.” “But what will you do?” “We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you.” “I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve. “Perhaps I have.” “Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s death.” “I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.” “You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright.” “No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.” Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the Doctor’s voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms. “Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger.” “Can I be of assistance?” “Your presence might be invaluable.” “Then I shall certainly come.” “It is very kind of you.” “You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than was visible to me.” “No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did.” “I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.” “You saw the ventilator, too?” “Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through.” “I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke Moran.” “My dear Holmes!” “Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.” “But what harm can there be in that?” “Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?” “I cannot as yet see any connection.” “Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?” “No.” “It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?” “I cannot say that I have.” “The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.” “Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.” “Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful.” About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us. “That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes from the middle window.” As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand. There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness. “My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?” Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear. “It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.” I had forgotten the strange pets which the Doctor affected. There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words: “The least sound would be fatal to our plans.” I nodded to show that I had heard. “We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.” I nodded again. “Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair.” I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table. Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness. How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness. From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall. Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull. “You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?” But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose. “What can it mean?” I gasped. “It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott’s room.” With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand. It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion. “The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes. I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent. “It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened.” As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it. Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day. “I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word ‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim. “I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it.” “With the result of driving it through the ventilator.” “And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience.” IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S THUMB Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice—that of Mr. Hatherley’s thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute and original observer, but the other was so strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that it may be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable results. The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less striking when set forth _en bloc_ in a single half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken the effect. It was in the summer of ’89, not long after my marriage, that the events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my virtues and of endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might have any influence. One morning, at a little before seven o’clock, I was awakened by the maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him. “I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder; “he’s all right.” “What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some strange creature which he had caged up in my room. “It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d bring him round myself; then he couldn’t slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you.” And off he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank him. I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control. “I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said he, “but I have had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table.” I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor).” That was the name, style, and abode of my morning visitor. “I regret that I have kept you waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library-chair. “You are fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous occupation.” “Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,” said he, and laughed. He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against that laugh. “Stop it!” I cried; “pull yourself together!” and I poured out some water from a caraffe. It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and pale-looking. “I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped. “Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy into the water, and the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks. “That’s better!” said he. “And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be.” He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots. “Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury. It must have bled considerably.” “Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a twig.” “Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.” “It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own province.” “This has been done,” said I, examining the wound, “by a very heavy and sharp instrument.” “A thing like a cleaver,” said he. “An accident, I presume?” “By no means.” “What! a murderous attack?” “Very murderous indeed.” “You horrify me.” I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time. “How is that?” I asked when I had finished. “Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through.” “Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying to your nerves.” “Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but, between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which I can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will be done.” “Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police.” “Oh, I have heard of that fellow,” answered my visitor, “and I should be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to him?” “I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.” “I should be immensely obliged to you.” “We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?” “Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story.” “Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an instant.” I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife, and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new acquaintance to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of _The Times_ and smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of brandy and water within his reach. “It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr. Hatherley,” said he. “Pray, lie down there and make yourself absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep up your strength with a little stimulant.” “Thank you,” said my patient, “but I have felt another man since the doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences.” Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor detailed to us. “You must know,” said he, “that I am an orphan and a bachelor, residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my work during the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time, and having also come into a fair sum of money through my poor father’s death, I determined to start in business for myself and took professional chambers in Victoria Street. “I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so. During two years I have had three consultations and one small job, and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My gross takings amount to £ 27 10_s_. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began to sink, and I came to believe that I should never have any practice at all. “Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of ‘Colonel Lysander Stark’ engraved upon it. Close at his heels came the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His whole face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than thirty. “‘Mr. Hatherley?’ said he, with something of a German accent. ‘You have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of preserving a secret.’ “I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an address. ‘May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?’ “‘Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.’ “‘That is quite correct,’ I answered; ‘but you will excuse me if I say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter that you wished to speak to me?’ “‘Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy is quite essential—absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who lives in the bosom of his family.’ “‘If I promise to keep a secret,’ said I, ‘you may absolutely depend upon my doing so.’ “He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye. “‘Do you promise, then?’ said he at last. “‘Yes, I promise.’ “‘Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?’ “‘I have already given you my word.’ “‘Very good.’ He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was empty. “‘That’s all right,’ said he, coming back. ‘I know that clerks are sometimes curious as to their master’s affairs. Now we can talk in safety.’ He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look. “A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my impatience. “‘I beg that you will state your business, sir,’ said I; ‘my time is of value.’ Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to my lips. “‘How would fifty guineas for a night’s work suit you?’ he asked. “‘Most admirably.’ “‘I say a night’s work, but an hour’s would be nearer the mark. I simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?’ “‘The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.’ “‘Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train.’ “‘Where to?’ “‘To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from Paddington which would bring you there at about 11:15.’ “‘Very good.’ “‘I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.’ “‘There is a drive, then?’ “‘Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven miles from Eyford Station.’ “‘Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night.’ “‘Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.’ “‘That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient hour?’ “‘We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw out of the business, there is plenty of time to do so.’ “I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be to me. ‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘I shall be very happy to accommodate myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.’ “‘Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to commit you to anything without your having it all laid before you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?’ “‘Entirely.’ “‘Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that fuller’s-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in one or two places in England?’ “‘I have heard so.’ “‘Some little time ago I bought a small place—a very small place—within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that there was a deposit of fuller’s-earth in one of my fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two very much larger ones upon the right and left—both of them, however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely ignorant that their land contained that which was quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value, but unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and secretly work our own little deposit and that in this way we should earn the money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields. This we have now been doing for some time, and in order to help us in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have already explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise me that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?’ “‘I quite follow you,’ said I. ‘The only point which I could not quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in excavating fuller’s-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like gravel from a pit.’ “‘Ah!’ said he carelessly, ‘we have our own process. We compress the earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.’ He rose as he spoke. ‘I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11:15.’ “‘I shall certainly be there.’ “‘And not a word to a soul.’ He looked at me with a last long, questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he hurried from the room. “Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a price upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my patron had made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not think that his explanation of the fuller’s-earth was sufficient to explain the necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off, having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue. “At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station. However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached the little dim-lit station after eleven o’clock. I was the only passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as fast as the horse could go.” “One horse?” interjected Holmes. “Yes, only one.” “Did you observe the colour?” “Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the carriage. It was a chestnut.” “Tired-looking or fresh?” “Oh, fresh and glossy.” “Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your most interesting statement.” “Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove away. “It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand. “‘Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,’ said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. ‘I shall not keep you waiting an instant,’ said he, and vanished into the darkness. “I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee. “Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind her. “‘I would go,’ said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak calmly; ‘I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you to do.’ “‘But, madam,’ said I, ‘I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.’ “‘It is not worth your while to wait,’ she went on. ‘You can pass through the door; no one hinders.’ And then, seeing that I smiled and shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step forward, with her hands wrung together. ‘For the love of Heaven!’ she whispered, ‘get away from here before it is too late!’ “But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should I slink away without having carried out my commission, and without the payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head and declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to renew her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had come. “The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson. “‘This is my secretary and manager,’ said the colonel. ‘By the way, I was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear that you have felt the draught.’ “‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I opened the door myself because I felt the room to be a little close.’ “He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. ‘Perhaps we had better proceed to business, then,’ said he. ‘Mr. Ferguson and I will take you up to see the machine.’ “‘I had better put my hat on, I suppose.’ “‘Oh, no, it is in the house.’ “‘What, you dig fuller’s-earth in the house?’ “‘No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what is wrong with it.’ “We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors, the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture above the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls, and the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not forgotten the warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at least a fellow-countryman. “Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the colonel ushered me in. “‘We are now,’ said he, ‘actually within the hydraulic press, and it would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over and to show us how we can set it right.’ “I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound that there was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of water through one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of the india-rubber bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my companions, who followed my remarks very carefully and asked several practical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When I had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller’s-earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel looking down at me. “‘What are you doing there?’ he asked. “I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that which he had told me. ‘I was admiring your fuller’s-earth,’ said I; ‘I think that I should be better able to advise you as to your machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.’ “The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey eyes. “‘Very well,’ said he, ‘you shall know all about the machine.’ He took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves. ‘Hullo!’ I yelled. ‘Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!’ “And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force which must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my face the weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope back to my heart. “I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I could hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from death. The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting upon the other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal, told me how narrow had been my escape. “I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had so foolishly rejected. “‘Come! come!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘They will be here in a moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious time, but come!’ “This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one answering the other from the floor on which we were and from the one beneath. My guide stopped and looked about her like one who is at her wit’s end. Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom, through the window of which the moon was shining brightly. “‘It is your only chance,’ said she. ‘It is high, but it may be that you can jump it.’ “As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher’s cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back. “‘Fritz! Fritz!’ she cried in English, ‘remember your promise after the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he will be silent!’ “‘You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted, struggling to break away from her. ‘You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’ He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden below. “I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time, saw that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among the rose-bushes. “How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew, and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my night’s adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just a little lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream. “Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles off. “It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you advise.” We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his cuttings. “Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he. “It appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: ‘Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was dressed in,’ etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy.” “Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that explains what the girl said.” “Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford.” Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together, bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre. “There you are,” said he. “That circle is drawn at a radius of ten miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that line. You said ten miles, I think, sir.” “It was an hour’s good drive.” “And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were unconscious?” “They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been lifted and conveyed somewhere.” “What I cannot understand,” said I, “is why they should have spared you when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain was softened by the woman’s entreaties.” “I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my life.” “Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk that we are in search of are to be found.” “I think I could lay my finger on it,” said Holmes quietly. “Really, now!” cried the inspector, “you have formed your opinion! Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the country is more deserted there.” “And I say east,” said my patient. “I am for west,” remarked the plain-clothes man. “There are several quiet little villages up there.” “And I am for north,” said I, “because there are no hills there, and our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any.” “Come,” cried the inspector, laughing; “it’s a very pretty diversity of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your casting vote to?” “You are all wrong.” “But we can’t all be.” “Oh, yes, you can. This is my point.” He placed his finger in the centre of the circle. “This is where we shall find them.” “But the twelve-mile drive?” gasped Hatherley. “Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?” “Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough,” observed Bradstreet thoughtfully. “Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this gang.” “None at all,” said Holmes. “They are coiners on a large scale, and have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of silver.” “We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,” said the inspector. “They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that showed that they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that we have got them right enough.” But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape. “A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on its way. “Yes, sir!” said the station-master. “When did it break out?” “I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and the whole place is in a blaze.” “Whose house is it?” “Dr. Becher’s.” “Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a German, very thin, with a long, sharp nose?” The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an Englishman, and there isn’t a man in the parish who has a better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm.” The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under. “That’s it!” cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. “There is the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second window is the one that I jumped from.” “Well, at least,” said Holmes, “you have had your revenge upon them. There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night, though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now.” And Holmes’ fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes’ ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clue as to their whereabouts. The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have been already referred to. How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger. “Well,” said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once more to London, “it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?” “Experience,” said Holmes, laughing. “Indirectly it may be of value, you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of being excellent company for the remainder of your existence.” X. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little sketch of this remarkable episode. It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble correspondent could be. “Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked as he entered. “Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a tide-waiter.” “Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie.” He broke the seal and glanced over the contents. “Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all.” “Not social, then?” “No, distinctly professional.” “And from a noble client?” “One of the highest in England.” “My dear fellow, I congratulate you.” “I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late, have you not?” “It looks like it,” said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the corner. “I have had nothing else to do.” “It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?” “Oh, yes, with the deepest interest.” “That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he says: “‘MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful event which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that it might be of some assistance. I will call at four o’clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of paramount importance. Yours faithfully, “‘ROBERT ST. SIMON.’ “It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer side of his right little finger,” remarked Holmes as he folded up the epistle. “He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour.” “Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.” He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting down and flattening it out upon his knee. “‘Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral.’ Hum! ‘Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.’ He’s forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more solid.” “I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I, “for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.” “Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van. That is quite cleared up now—though, indeed, it was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.” “Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column of the _Morning Post_, and dates, as you see, some weeks back: ‘A marriage has been arranged,’ it says, ‘and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.’ That is all.” “Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire. “There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of the same week. Ah, here it is: ‘There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a British peeress.’” “Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning. “Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the _Morning Post_ to say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at St. George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later—that is, on Wednesday last—there is a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride.” “Before the what?” asked Holmes with a start. “The vanishing of the lady.” “When did she vanish, then?” “At the wedding breakfast.” “Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite dramatic, in fact.” “Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.” “They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this. Pray let me have the details.” “I warn you that they are very incomplete.” “Perhaps we may make them less so.” “Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding’: “‘The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation. “‘The ceremony, which was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange disappearance of the bride.’” “And is that all?” “Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a suggestive one.” “And it is—” “That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a _danseuse_ at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years. There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands now—so far as it has been set forth in the public press.” “And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own memory.” “Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses. “Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.” “A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of society.” “No, I am descending.” “I beg pardon.” “My last client of the sort was a king.” “Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?” “The King of Scandinavia.” “What! Had he lost his wife?” “You can understand,” said Holmes suavely, “that I extend to the affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in yours.” “Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg pardon. As to my own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in forming an opinion.” “Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints, nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct—this article, for example, as to the disappearance of the bride.” Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it goes.” “But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by questioning you.” “Pray do so.” “When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?” “In San Francisco, a year ago.” “You were travelling in the States?” “Yes.” “Did you become engaged then?” “No.” “But you were on a friendly footing?” “I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.” “Her father is very rich?” “He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.” “And how did he make his money?” “In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold, invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds.” “Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s—your wife’s character?” The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the fire. “You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is impetuous—volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to bear”—he gave a little stately cough—“had I not thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her.” “Have you her photograph?” “I brought this with me.” He opened a locket and showed us the full face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon. “The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your acquaintance?” “Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.” “She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?” “A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.” “And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a _fait accompli_?” “I really have made no inquiries on the subject.” “Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the wedding?” “Yes.” “Was she in good spirits?” “Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future lives.” “Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?” “She was as bright as possible—at least until after the ceremony.” “And did you observe any change in her then?” “Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however, was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the case.” “Pray let us have it, for all that.” “Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over into the pew. There was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause.” “Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the general public were present, then?” “Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open.” “This gentleman was not one of your wife’s friends?” “No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I think that we are wandering rather far from the point.” “Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering her father’s house?” “I saw her in conversation with her maid.” “And who is her maid?” “Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with her.” “A confidential servant?” “A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these things in a different way.” “How long did she speak to this Alice?” “Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of.” “You did not overhear what they said?” “Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She was accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant.” “American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?” “She walked into the breakfast-room.” “On your arm?” “No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came back.” “But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her room, covered her bride’s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went out.” “Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.” “Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and your relations to her.” Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “We have been on a friendly footing for some years—I may say on a _very_ friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a row.” “Did your wife hear all this?” “No, thank goodness, she did not.” “And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?” “Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some terrible trap for her.” “Well, it is a possible supposition.” “You think so, too?” “I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this as likely?” “I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.” “Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is your own theory as to what took place?” “Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife.” “In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?” “Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back—I will not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without success—I can hardly explain it in any other fashion.” “Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,” said Holmes, smiling. “And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that you could see out of the window?” “We could see the other side of the road and the Park.” “Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I shall communicate with you.” “Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,” said our client, rising. “I have solved it.” “Eh? What was that?” “I say that I have solved it.” “Where, then, is my wife?” “That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.” Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that it will take wiser heads than yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately, old-fashioned manner he departed. “It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think that I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before our client came into the room.” “My dear Holmes!” “I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau’s example.” “But I have heard all that you have heard.” “Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases—but, hullo, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box.” The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the cigar which had been offered to him. “What’s up, then?” asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. “You look dissatisfied.” “And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business.” “Really! You surprise me.” “Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day.” “And very wet it seems to have made you,” said Holmes laying his hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket. “Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.” “In Heaven’s name, what for?” “In search of the body of Lady St. Simon.” Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. “Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?” he asked. “Why? What do you mean?” “Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one as in the other.” Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. “I suppose you know all about it,” he snarled. “Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.” “Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the matter?” “I think it very unlikely.” “Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?” He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a bride’s wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water. “There,” said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. “There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.” “Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You dragged them from the Serpentine?” “No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off.” “By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?” “At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.” “I am afraid that you will find it difficult.” “Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some bitterness. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.” “And how?” “In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the card-case is a note. And here is the very note.” He slapped it down upon the table in front of him. “Listen to this: ‘You will see me when all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.’ Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within their reach.” “Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he. “Ha! you find it so?” “Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.” Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he shrieked, “you’re looking at the wrong side!” “On the contrary, this is the right side.” “The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over here.” “And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply.” “There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “‘Oct. 4th, rooms 8_s_., breakfast 2_s_. 6_d_., cocktail 1_s_., lunch 2_s_. 6_d_., glass sherry, 8_d_.’ I see nothing in that.” “Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate you again.” “I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising. “I believe in hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter first.” He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made for the door. “Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes before his rival vanished; “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such person.” Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away. He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor work,” he remarked, “so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your papers for a little.” It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner’s man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a _pâté de foie gras_ pie with a group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered to this address. Just before nine o’clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions. “They have laid the supper, then,” he said, rubbing his hands. “You seem to expect company. They have laid for five.” “Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,” said he. “I am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that I hear his step now upon the stairs.” It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in, dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features. “My messenger reached you, then?” asked Holmes. “Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure. Have you good authority for what you say?” “The best possible.” Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his forehead. “What will the Duke say,” he murmured, “when he hears that one of the family has been subjected to such humiliation?” “It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any humiliation.” “Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint.” “I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to advise her at such a crisis.” “It was a slight, sir, a public slight,” said Lord St. Simon, tapping his fingers upon the table. “You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so unprecedented a position.” “I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been shamefully used.” “I think that I heard a ring,” said Holmes. “Yes, there are steps on the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be more successful.” He opened the door and ushered in a lady and gentleman. “Lord St. Simon,” said he “allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met.” At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him, but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard to resist. “You’re angry, Robert,” said she. “Well, I guess you have every cause to be.” “Pray make no apology to me,” said Lord St. Simon bitterly. “Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn’t know what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn’t fall down and do a faint right there before the altar.” “Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the room while you explain this matter?” “If I may give an opinion,” remarked the strange gentleman, “we’ve had just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it.” He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner. “Then I’ll tell our story right away,” said the lady. “Frank here and I met in ’84, in McQuire’s camp, near the Rockies, where Pa was working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer Pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last Pa wouldn’t hear of our engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to ’Frisco. Frank wouldn’t throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without Pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as Pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. ‘Why shouldn’t we be married right away, then,’ said he, ‘and then I will feel sure of you; and I won’t claim to be your husband until I come back?’ Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to Pa. “The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners’ camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank’s name among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in ’Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to ’Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and Pa was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank. “Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I’d have done my duty by him. We can’t command our love, but we can our actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank standing and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I didn’t drop. I know that everything was turning round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee in my ear. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stop the service and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct. “When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain afterwards. I hadn’t been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St. Simon to me—seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage also—but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to ’Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding.” “I saw it in a paper,” explained the American. “It gave the name and the church but not where the lady lived.” “Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should like to vanish away and never see any of them again—just sending a line to Pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very meanly of me.” Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long narrative. “Excuse me,” he said, “but it is not my custom to discuss my most intimate personal affairs in this public manner.” “Then you won’t forgive me? You won’t shake hands before I go?” “Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.” He put out his hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him. “I had hoped,” suggested Holmes, “that you would have joined us in a friendly supper.” “I think that there you ask a little too much,” responded his Lordship. “I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with your permission I will now wish you all a very good-night.” He included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room. “Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not prevent our children from being some day citizens of the same world-wide country under a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes.” “The case has been an interesting one,” remarked Holmes when our visitors had left us, “because it serves to show very clearly how simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard.” “You were not yourself at fault at all, then?” “From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning home. Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What could that something be? She could not have spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be someone from America because she had spent so short a time in this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to change her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an American. Then who could this American be, and why should he possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St. Simon’s narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in the bride’s manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion to claim-jumping—which in miners’ parlance means taking possession of that which another person has a prior claim to—the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a previous husband—the chances being in favour of the latter.” “And how in the world did you find them?” “It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information in his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still was it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of the most select London hotels.” “How did you deduce the select?” “By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I came upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give them some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be better in every way that they should make their position a little clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the appointment.” “But with no very good result,” I remarked. “His conduct was certainly not very gracious.” “Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling, “perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings.” XI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET “Holmes,” said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down the street, “here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that his relatives should allow him to come out alone.” My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of the footpaths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention. He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the most extraordinary contortions. “What on earth can be the matter with him?” I asked. “He is looking up at the numbers of the houses.” “I believe that he is coming here,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands. “Here?” “Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?” As he spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at our bell until the whole house resounded with the clanging. A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity. For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon him and tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ. “You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?” said he. “You are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little problem which you may submit to me.” The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us. “No doubt you think me mad?” said he. “I see that you have had some great trouble,” responded Holmes. “God knows I have!—a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced, although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain. Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land may suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair.” “Pray compose yourself, sir,” said Holmes, “and let me have a clear account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you.” “My name,” answered our visitor, “is probably familiar to your ears. I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of Threadneedle Street.” The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City of London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all curiosity, until with another effort he braced himself to tell his story. “I feel that time is of value,” said he; “that is why I hastened here when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as shortly and yet as clearly as I can. “It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security is unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction during the last few years, and there are many noble families to whom we have advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries, or plate. “Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the name, for it was that of none other than—well, perhaps even to you I had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household word all over the earth—one of the highest, noblest, most exalted names in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task. “‘Mr. Holder,’ said he, ‘I have been informed that you are in the habit of advancing money.’ “‘The firm does so when the security is good.’ I answered. “‘It is absolutely essential to me,’ said he, ‘that I should have £ 50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of business and to carry out that business myself. In my position you can readily understand that it is unwise to place one’s self under obligations.’ “‘For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?’ I asked. “‘Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should be paid at once.’ “‘I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own private purse,’ said I, ‘were it not that the strain would be rather more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that, even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.’ “‘I should much prefer to have it so,’ said he, raising up a square, black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair. ‘You have doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?’ “‘One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,’ said I. “‘Precisely.’ He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft, flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he had named. ‘There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,’ said he, ‘and the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my security.’ “I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity from it to my illustrious client. “‘You doubt its value?’ he asked. “‘Not at all. I only doubt—’ “‘The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter of form. Is the security sufficient?’ “‘Ample.’ “‘You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this coronet with every possible precaution because I need not say that a great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it would be impossible to replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.’ “Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but, calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty £ 1000 notes. When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying upon the table in front of me, I could not but think with some misgivings of the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me. There could be no doubt that, as it was a national possession, a horrible scandal would ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having ever consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned once more to my work. “When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers’ safes had been forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined, therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe freely until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room. “And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few months. She came with an excellent character, however, and has always given me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about the place. That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way. “So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son, Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes—a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best. “It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back again. “And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman’s quick insight into character. “And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house—sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but each time she has refused him. I think that if anyone could have drawn him into the right path it would have been she, and that his marriage might have changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too late—forever too late! “Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I shall continue with my miserable story. “When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but I thought it better not to disturb it. “‘Where have you put it?’ asked Arthur. “‘In my own bureau.’ “‘Well, I hope to goodness the house won’t be burgled during the night.’ said he. “‘It is locked up,’ I answered. “‘Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.’ “He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very grave face. “‘Look here, dad,’ said he with his eyes cast down, ‘can you let me have £ 200?’ “‘No, I cannot!’ I answered sharply. ‘I have been far too generous with you in money matters.’ “‘You have been very kind,’ said he, ‘but I must have this money, or else I can never show my face inside the club again.’ “‘And a very good thing, too!’ I cried. “‘Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,’ said he. ‘I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try other means.’ “I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month. ‘You shall not have a farthing from me,’ I cried, on which he bowed and left the room without another word. “When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house to see that all was secure—a duty which I usually leave to Mary but which I thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which she closed and fastened as I approached. “‘Tell me, dad,’ said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, ‘did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?’ “‘Certainly not.’ “‘She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is hardly safe and should be stopped.’ “‘You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?’ “‘Quite sure, dad.’ “‘Then, good-night.’ I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep. “I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any point which I do not make clear.” “On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid.” “I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room door. “‘Arthur!’ I screamed, ‘you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that coronet?’ “The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing. “‘You blackguard!’ I shouted, beside myself with rage. ‘You have destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels which you have stolen?’ “‘Stolen!’ he cried. “‘Yes, thief!’ I roared, shaking him by the shoulder. “‘There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,’ said he. “‘There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another piece?’ “‘You have called me names enough,’ said he, ‘I will not stand it any longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and make my own way in the world.’ “‘You shall leave it in the hands of the police!’ I cried half-mad with grief and rage. ‘I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.’ “‘You shall learn nothing from me,’ said he with a passion such as I should not have thought was in his nature. ‘If you choose to call the police, let the police find what they can.’ “By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of the coronet and of Arthur’s face, she read the whole story and, with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the housemaid for the police and put the investigation into their hands at once. When the inspector and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law should have its way in everything. “‘At least,’ said he, ‘you will not have me arrested at once. It would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for five minutes.’ “‘That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have stolen,’ said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing stones. “‘You may as well face the matter,’ said I; ‘you have been caught in the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.’ “‘Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,’ he answered, turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of £ 1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!” He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words. Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire. “Do you receive much company?” he asked. “None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of Arthur’s. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one else, I think.” “Do you go out much in society?” “Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it.” “That is unusual in a young girl.” “She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is four-and-twenty.” “This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her also.” “Terrible! She is even more affected than I.” “You have neither of you any doubt as to your son’s guilt?” “How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in his hands.” “I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the coronet at all injured?” “Yes, it was twisted.” “Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten it?” “God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose were innocent, why did he not say so?” “Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which awoke you from your sleep?” “They considered that it might be caused by Arthur’s closing his bedroom door.” “A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of these gems?” “They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in the hope of finding them.” “Have they thought of looking outside the house?” “Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has already been minutely examined.” “Now, my dear sir,” said Holmes, “is it not obvious to you now that this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it, went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?” “But what other is there?” cried the banker with a gesture of despair. “If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain them?” “It is our task to find that out,” replied Holmes; “so now, if you please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into details.” My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition, which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that the guilt of the banker’s son appeared to me to be as obvious as it did to his unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes’ judgment that I felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long as he was dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke a word the whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought. Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of hope which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest residence of the great financier. Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led into a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road to the kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen’s entrance. On the left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within the grounds at all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us standing at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the front, down the tradesmen’s path, and so round by the garden behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until he should return. We were sitting there in silence when the door opened and a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle height, slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman’s face. Her lips, too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the more striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character, with immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she went straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a sweet womanly caress. “You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not, dad?” she asked. “No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom.” “But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman’s instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be sorry for having acted so harshly.” “Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?” “Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect him.” “How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the coronet in his hand?” “Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more. It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison!” “I shall never let it drop until the gems are found—never, Mary! Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down from London to inquire more deeply into it.” “This gentleman?” she asked, facing round to me. “No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the stable lane now.” “The stable lane?” She raised her dark eyebrows. “What can he hope to find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime.” “I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove it,” returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from his shoes. “I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?” “Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up.” “You heard nothing yourself last night?” “Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and I came down.” “You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all the windows?” “Yes.” “Were they all fastened this morning?” “Yes.” “You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?” “Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who may have heard uncle’s remarks about the coronet.” “I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart, and that the two may have planned the robbery.” “But what is the good of all these vague theories,” cried the banker impatiently, “when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his hands?” “Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume?” “Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom.” “Do you know him?” “Oh, yes! he is the greengrocer who brings our vegetables round. His name is Francis Prosper.” “He stood,” said Holmes, “to the left of the door—that is to say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?” “Yes, he did.” “And he is a man with a wooden leg?” Something like fear sprang up in the young lady’s expressive black eyes. “Why, you are like a magician,” said she. “How do you know that?” She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes’ thin, eager face. “I should be very glad now to go upstairs,” said he. “I shall probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up.” He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his powerful magnifying lens. “Now we shall go upstairs,” said he at last. The banker’s dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the bureau first and looked hard at the lock. “Which key was used to open it?” he asked. “That which my son himself indicated—that of the cupboard of the lumber-room.” “Have you it here?” “That is it on the dressing-table.” Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau. “It is a noiseless lock,” said he. “It is no wonder that it did not wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a look at it.” He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller’s art, and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding three gems had been torn away. “Now, Mr. Holder,” said Holmes, “here is the corner which corresponds to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will break it off.” The banker recoiled in horror. “I should not dream of trying,” said he. “Then I will.” Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without result. “I feel it give a little,” said he; “but, though I am exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a few yards of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?” “I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me.” “But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss Holder?” “I confess that I still share my uncle’s perplexity.” “Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?” “He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt.” “Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my investigations outside.” He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow and his features as inscrutable as ever. “I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,” said he; “I can serve you best by returning to my rooms.” “But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?” “I cannot tell.” The banker wrung his hands. “I shall never see them again!” he cried. “And my son? You give me hopes?” “My opinion is in no way altered.” “Then, for God’s sake, what was this dark business which was acted in my house last night?” “If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it clearer. I understand that you give me _carte blanche_ to act for you, provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit on the sum I may draw.” “I would give my fortune to have them back.” “Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then. Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again before evening.” It was obvious to me that my companion’s mind was now made up about the case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to some other topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not yet three when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried to his chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a common loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class. “I think that this should do,” said he, glancing into the glass above the fireplace. “I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that it won’t do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may be following a will-o’-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is. I hope that I may be back in a few hours.” He cut a slice of beef from the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off upon his expedition. I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked it down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea. “I only looked in as I passed,” said he. “I am going right on.” “Where to?” “Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I get back. Don’t wait up for me in case I should be late.” “How are you getting on?” “Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal. However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self.” I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that he was off once more upon his congenial hunt. I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim as possible. “You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,” said he, “but you remember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning.” “Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I should not be surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a ring.” It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy which was even more painful than his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for him. “I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,” said he. “Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me.” “Deserted you?” “Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty, and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note: “‘MY DEAREST UNCLE,—I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for; and, above all, do not search for me, for it will be fruitless labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in death, I am ever your loving, “‘MARY.’ “What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points to suicide?” “No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your troubles.” “Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have learned something! Where are the gems?” “You would not think £ 1000 apiece an excessive sum for them?” “I would pay ten.” “That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your cheque-book? Here is a pen. Better make it out for £ 4000.” With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table. With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up. “You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am saved!” The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he hugged his recovered gems to his bosom. “There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,” said Sherlock Holmes rather sternly. “Owe!” He caught up a pen. “Name the sum, and I will pay it.” “No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have one.” “Then it was not Arthur who took them?” “I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not.” “You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know that the truth is known.” “He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it to him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the very few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of this morning, however, may open his lips.” “For Heaven’s sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary mystery!” “I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it. And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say and for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together.” “My Mary? Impossible!” “It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England—a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her, she flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said, but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening.” “I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the banker with an ashen face. “I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have been one. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you about one of the servants’ escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was all perfectly true. “Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door, whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain. “As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down, just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene.” “Is it possible?” gasped the banker. “You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret.” “And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,” cried Mr. Holder. “Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!” “When I arrived at the house,” continued Holmes, “I at once went very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen’s path, but found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of me. “There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the other had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over the depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed after the other. I followed them up and found they led to the hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round, where the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to that clue. “On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred. A man had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems; the deed had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had struggled with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man and who was it brought him the coronet? “It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down, so there only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why should your son allow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was an excellent explanation why he should retain her secret—the more so as the secret was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that window, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my conjecture became a certainty. “And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems. Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word without compromising his own family. “Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George’s house, managed to pick up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these I journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the tracks.” “I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,” said Mr. Holder. “Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then, for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything. But when I gave him every particular that had occurred, he tried to bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike. Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give him a price for the stones he held—£ 1000 apiece. That brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. ‘Why, dash it all!’ said he, ‘I’ve let them go at six hundred for the three!’ I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I set to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at £ 1000 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o’clock, after what I may call a really hard day’s work.” “A day which has saved England from a great public scandal,” said the banker, rising. “Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even your skill can inform me where she is now.” “I think that we may safely say,” returned Holmes, “that she is wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient punishment.” XII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES “To the man who loves art for its own sake,” remarked Sherlock Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of _The Daily Telegraph_, “it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in these little records of our cases which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence not so much to the many _causes célèbres_ and sensational trials in which I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my special province.” “And yet,” said I, smiling, “I cannot quite hold myself absolved from the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records.” “You have erred, perhaps,” he observed, taking up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a meditative mood—“you have erred perhaps in attempting to put colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about the thing.” “It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter,” I remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend’s singular character. “No, it is not selfishness or conceit,” said he, answering, as was his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. “If I claim full justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing—a thing beyond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.” It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last, having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings. “At the same time,” he remarked after a pause, during which he had sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, “you can hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial.” “The end may have been so,” I answered, “but the methods I hold to have been novel and of interest.” “Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!” He tossed a crumpled letter across to me. It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran thus: “DEAR MR. HOLMES,—I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully, “VIOLET HUNTER.” “Do you know the young lady?” I asked. “Not I.” “It is half-past ten now.” “Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring.” “It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this case, also.” “Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question.” As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a plover’s egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own way to make in the world. “You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure,” said she, as my companion rose to greet her, “but I have had a very strange experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what I should do.” “Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I can to serve you.” I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his finger-tips together, to listen to her story. “I have been a governess for five years,” said she, “in the family of Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my wit’s end as to what I should do. “There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called Westaway’s, and there I used to call about once a week in order to see whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was the name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has anything which would suit them. “Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper. “‘That will do,’ said he; ‘I could not ask for anything better. Capital! capital!’ He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands together in the most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him. “‘You are looking for a situation, miss?’ he asked. “‘Yes, sir.’ “‘As governess?’ “‘Yes, sir.’ “‘And what salary do you ask?’ “‘I had £ 4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.’ “‘Oh, tut, tut! sweating—rank sweating!’ he cried, throwing his fat hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. ‘How could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and accomplishments?’ “‘My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,’ said I. ‘A little French, a little German, music, and drawing—’ “‘Tut, tut!’ he cried. ‘This is all quite beside the question. The point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in the history of the country. But if you have why, then, how could any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at £ 100 a year.’ “You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however, seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocket-book and took out a note. “‘It is also my custom,’ said he, smiling in the most pleasant fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the white creases of his face, ‘to advance to my young ladies half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their journey and their wardrobe.’ “It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know a little more before I quite committed myself. “‘May I ask where you live, sir?’ said I. “‘Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear young lady, and the dearest old country-house.’ “‘And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.’ “‘One child—one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three gone before you could wink!’ He leaned back in his chair and laughed his eyes into his head again. “I was a little startled at the nature of the child’s amusement, but the father’s laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking. “‘My sole duties, then,’ I asked, ‘are to take charge of a single child?’ “‘No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,’ he cried. ‘Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no difficulty, heh?’ “‘I should be happy to make myself useful.’ “‘Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you know—faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’ “‘No,’ said I, considerably astonished at his words. “‘Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?’ “‘Oh, no.’ “‘Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?’ “I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of sacrificing it in this offhand fashion. “‘I am afraid that that is quite impossible,’ said I. He had been watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow pass over his face as I spoke. “‘I am afraid that it is quite essential,’ said he. ‘It is a little fancy of my wife’s, and ladies’ fancies, you know, madam, ladies’ fancies must be consulted. And so you won’t cut your hair?’ “‘No, sir, I really could not,’ I answered firmly. “‘Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity, because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young ladies.’ “The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a handsome commission through my refusal. “‘Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?’ she asked. “‘If you please, Miss Stoper.’ “‘Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most excellent offers in this fashion,’ said she sharply. ‘You can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you. Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.’ She struck a gong upon the table, and I was shown out by the page. “Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table, I began to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting £ 100 a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read it to you: “‘The Copper Beeches, near Winchester. “‘DEAR MISS HUNTER,—Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We are willing to give £ 30 a quarter, or £ 120 a year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity, especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. Yours faithfully, “‘JEPHRO RUCASTLE.’ “That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your consideration.” “Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the question,” said Holmes, smiling. “But you would not advise me to refuse?” “I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for.” “What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?” “Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some opinion?” “Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?” “That is a possible solution—in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady.” “But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!” “Well, yes, of course the pay is good—too good. That is what makes me uneasy. Why should they give you £ 120 a year, when they could have their pick for £ 40? There must be some strong reason behind.” “I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me.” “Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger—” “Danger! What danger do you foresee?” Holmes shook his head gravely. “It would cease to be a danger if we could define it,” said he. “But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help.” “That is enough.” She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all swept from her face. “I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow.” With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon her way. “At least,” said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the stairs, “she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take care of herself.” “And she would need to be,” said Holmes gravely. “I am much mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past.” It was not very long before my friend’s prediction was fulfilled. A fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. “Data! data! data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation. The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me. “Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,” said he, and turned back to his chemical studies. The summons was a brief and urgent one. “Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow,” it said. “Do come! I am at my wit’s end. “HUNTER.” “Will you come with me?” asked Holmes, glancing up. “I should wish to.” “Just look it up, then.” “There is a train at half-past nine,” said I, glancing over my Bradshaw. “It is due at Winchester at 11:30.” “That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the morning.” By eleven o’clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man’s energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from amid the light green of the new foliage. “Are they not fresh and beautiful?” I cried with all the enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street. But Holmes shook his head gravely. “Do you know, Watson,” said he, “that it is one of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there.” “Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate crime with these dear old homesteads?” “They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.” “You horrify me!” “But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally threatened.” “No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away.” “Quite so. She has her freedom.” “What _can_ be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?” “I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct can only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral, and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell.” The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us. She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the table. “I am so delighted that you have come,” she said earnestly. “It is so very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do. Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me.” “Pray tell us what has happened to you.” “I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle to be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this morning, though he little knew for what purpose.” “Let us have everything in its due order.” Holmes thrust his long thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen. “In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in my mind about them.” “What can you not understand?” “Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides, and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord Southerton’s preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to the place. “I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with her father’s young wife. “Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes wandered continually from one to the other, noting every little want and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I have surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the disposition of her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large. His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has little to do with my story.” “I am glad of all details,” remarked my friend, “whether they seem to you to be relevant or not.” “I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife. Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one corner of the building. “For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and whispered something to her husband. “‘Oh, yes,’ said he, turning to me, ‘we are very much obliged to you, Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and if you would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely obliged.’ “The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching along the entire front of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair had been placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. In this I was asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on the other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest stories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap, and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of the day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in the nursery. “Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of which my employer had an immense _répertoire_, and which he told inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my dress. “You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able with a little management to see all that there was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There was nothing. At least that was my first impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are usually people there. This man, however, was leaning against the railings which bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose at once. “‘Jephro,’ said she, ‘there is an impertinent fellow upon the road there who stares up at Miss Hunter.’ “‘No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?’ he asked. “‘No, I know no one in these parts.’ “‘Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him to go away.’ “‘Surely it would be better to take no notice.’ “‘No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round and wave him away like that.’ “I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man in the road.” “Pray continue,” said Holmes. “Your narrative promises to be a most interesting one.” “You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak. On the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as of a large animal moving about. “‘Look in here!’ said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two planks. ‘Is he not a beauty?’ “I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a vague figure huddled up in the darkness. “‘Don’t be frightened,’ said my employer, laughing at the start which I had given. ‘It’s only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness’ sake don’t you ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at night, for it’s as much as your life is worth.’ “The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look out of my bedroom window about two o’clock in the morning. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf, tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart which I do not think that any burglar could have done. “And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers in the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked. I had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It was my coil of hair. “I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together, and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer which they had locked. “I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him a very different person to the round, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried past me without a word or a look. “This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as merry and jovial as ever. “‘Ah!’ said he, ‘you must not think me rude if I passed you without a word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.’ “I assured him that I was not offended. ‘By the way,’ said I, ‘you seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the shutters up.’ “He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my remark. “‘Photography is one of my hobbies,’ said he. ‘I have made my dark room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed it?’ He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest. “Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty—a feeling that some good might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of woman’s instinct; perhaps it was woman’s instinct which gave me that feeling. At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout for any chance to pass the forbidden door. “It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that, besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently in the lock, opened the door, and slipped through. “There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted, which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open. They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two windows in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the evening light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was closed, and across the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at the other with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and forward against the little slit of dim light which shone out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and ran—ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside. “‘So,’ said he, smiling, ‘it was you, then. I thought that it must be when I saw the door open.’ “‘Oh, I am so frightened!’ I panted. “‘My dear young lady! my dear young lady!’—you cannot think how caressing and soothing his manner was—‘and what has frightened you, my dear young lady?’ “But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was keenly on my guard against him. “‘I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,’ I answered. ‘But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!’ “‘Only that?’ said he, looking at me keenly. “‘Why, what did you think?’ I asked. “‘Why do you think that I lock this door?’ “‘I am sure that I do not know.’ “‘It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?’ He was still smiling in the most amiable manner. “‘I am sure if I had known—’ “‘Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that threshold again’—here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon—‘I’ll throw you to the mastiff.’ “I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the house, but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down to the office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one in the household who had any influence with the savage creature, or who would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this morning, but I must be back before three o’clock, for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all the evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should do.” Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his face. “Is Toller still drunk?” he asked. “Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him.” “That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?” “Yes.” “Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?” “Yes, the wine-cellar.” “You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman.” “I will try. What is it?” “We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o’clock, my friend and I. The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely.” “I will do it.” “Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some friend of hers—possibly her _fiancé_—and no doubt, as you wore the girl’s dress and were so like her, he was convinced from your laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition of the child.” “What on earth has that to do with it?” I ejaculated. “My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don’t you see that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their children. This child’s disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty’s sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their power.” “I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes,” cried our client. “A thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor creature.” “We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We can do nothing until seven o’clock. At that hour we shall be with you, and it will not be long before we solve the mystery.” We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house. The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the house even had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the door-step. “Have you managed it?” asked Holmes. A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. “That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar,” said she. “Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr. Rucastle’s.” “You have done well indeed!” cried Holmes with enthusiasm. “Now lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business.” We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came from within, and at the silence Holmes’ face clouded over. “I trust that we are not too late,” said he. “I think, Miss Hunter, that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in.” It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone. “There has been some villainy here,” said Holmes; “this beauty has guessed Miss Hunter’s intentions and has carried his victim off.” “But how?” “Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.” He swung himself up onto the roof. “Ah, yes,” he cried, “here’s the end of a long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it.” “But it is impossible,” said Miss Hunter; “the ladder was not there when the Rucastles went away.” “He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as well for you to have your pistol ready.” The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him. “You villain!” said he, “where’s your daughter?” The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight. “It is for me to ask you that,” he shrieked, “you thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I’ll serve you!” He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go. “He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter. “I have my revolver,” said I. “Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door. “My God!” he cried. “Someone has loosed the dog. It’s not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it’ll be too late!” Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle buried in Rucastle’s throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his neck. With much labour we separated them and carried him, living but horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa, and having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to his wife, I did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room. “Mrs. Toller!” cried Miss Hunter. “Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn’t let me know what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted.” “Ha!” said Holmes, looking keenly at her. “It is clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else.” “Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know.” “Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark.” “I will soon make it clear to you,” said she; “and I’d have done so before now if I could ha’ got out from the cellar. If there’s police-court business over this, you’ll remember that I was the one that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice’s friend too. “She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn’t, from the time that her father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in anything, but it never really became bad for her until after she met Mr. Fowler at a friend’s house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice had rights of her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she never said a word about them but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle’s hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her money. When she wouldn’t do it, he kept on worrying her until she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death’s door. Then she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn’t make no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be.” “Ah,” said Holmes, “I think that what you have been good enough to tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of imprisonment?” “Yes, sir.” “And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler.” “That was it, sir.” “But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be, blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the same as his.” “Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman,” said Mrs. Toller serenely. “And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your master had gone out.” “You have it, sir, just as it happened.” “I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller,” said Holmes, “for you have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me that our _locus standi_ now is rather a questionable one.” And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife. They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of Rucastle’s past life that he finds it difficult to part from them. Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success. '

'The Project Gutenberg eBook of Emma, by Jane Austen  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.  Title: Emma  Author: Jane Austen  Release Date: August, 1994 [eBook #158] [Most recently updated: December 14, 2021]  Language: English   Produced by: An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger  *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMMA ***     Emma  by Jane Austen   Contents   VOLUME I.  CHAPTER I.  CHAPTER II.  CHAPTER III.  CHAPTER IV.  CHAPTER V.  CHAPTER VI.  CHAPTER VII.  CHAPTER VIII.  CHAPTER IX.  CHAPTER X.  CHAPTER XI.  CHAPTER XII.  CHAPTER XIII.  CHAPTER XIV.  CHAPTER XV.  CHAPTER XVI.  CHAPTER XVII.  CHAPTER XVIII.   VOLUME II.  CHAPTER I.  CHAPTER II.  CHAPTER III.  CHAPTER IV.  CHAPTER V.  CHAPTER VI.  CHAPTER VII.  CHAPTER VIII.  CHAPTER IX.  CHAPTER X.  CHAPTER XI.  CHAPTER XII.  CHAPTER XIII.  CHAPTER XIV.  CHAPTER XV.  CHAPTER XVI.  CHAPTER XVII.  CHAPTER XVIII.   VOLUME III.  CHAPTER I.  CHAPTER II.  CHAPTER III.  CHAPTER IV.  CHAPTER V.  CHAPTER VI.  CHAPTER VII.  CHAPTER VIII.  CHAPTER IX.  CHAPTER X.  CHAPTER XI.  CHAPTER XII.  CHAPTER XIII.  CHAPTER XIV.  CHAPTER XV.  CHAPTER XVI.  CHAPTER XVII.  CHAPTER XVIII.  CHAPTER XIX.     VOLUME I     CHAPTER I   Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.  She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.  Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor’s judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.  The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.  Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor’s loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.  The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning’s work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness—the kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how she had taught and how she had played with her from five years old—how she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health—and how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of hers—one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as could never find fault.  How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.  The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.  Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society again.  Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying, nor could ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner,  “Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!”  “I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife;—and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?”  “A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a house of her own? This is three times as large.—And you have never any odd humours, my dear.”  “How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!—We shall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay wedding visit very soon.”  “My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could not walk half so far.”  “No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage, to be sure.”  “The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a little way;—and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our visit?”  “They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You know we have settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going to Randalls, because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned her—James is so obliged to you!”  “I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are.”  Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary.  Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after some days’ absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after “poor Isabella” and her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk.”  “Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire.”  “But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold.”  “Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.”  “Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.”  “By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?”  “Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ’Tis a sad business.”  “Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!—At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two.”  “Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!” said Emma playfully. “That is what you have in your head, I know—and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.”  “I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,” said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. “I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.”  “My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know—in a joke—it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another.”  Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body.  “Emma knows I never flatter her,” said Mr. Knightley, “but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer.”  “Well,” said Emma, willing to let it pass—“you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day.”  “Dear Emma bears every thing so well,” said her father. “But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for.”  Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. “It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,” said Mr. Knightley. “We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor’s time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married.”  “And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,” said Emma, “and a very considerable one—that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing.”  Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, “Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches.”  “I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful—Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.  “Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making.”  “I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’” said Mr. Knightley. “Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, ‘I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,’ and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said.”  “And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?—I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word ‘success,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third—a something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston’s visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that.”  “A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference.”  “Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,” rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. “But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one’s family circle grievously.”  “Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa,—I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him—and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him single any longer—and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a service.”  “Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day. That will be a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet him.”  “With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,” said Mr. Knightley, laughing, “and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.”     CHAPTER II   Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied.  Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.  Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune—though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate—was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother’s unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.  Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years’ marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother’s, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.  A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence—enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for—enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.  It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.  He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle’s heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father’s assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston’s nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern.  Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved.  Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. “I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life.”  It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her.  She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma’s losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour’s ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston’s disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together.  Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction—her more than satisfaction—her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’ when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse’s giving a gentle sigh, and saying, “Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.”  There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body’s eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many—perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.  There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it.     CHAPTER III   Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma’s persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him.  Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.  After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance.  Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body’s happiness, quicksighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.  Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems—and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity—but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard’s school was in high repute—and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse’s kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside.  These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father’s sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.  As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.  Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her.  She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance.  She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith’s conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very creditably, she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them—but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.  She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests.  Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse’s feelings were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat.  Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say:  “Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a _little_ bit of tart—a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with you.”  Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last!     CHAPTER IV   Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her. In that respect Mrs. Weston’s loss had been important. Her father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston’s marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs.  Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the young friend she wanted—exactly the something which her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could never be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.  Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked—but she could never believe that in the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.  Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation—and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness—amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of Mrs. Martin’s having “_two_ parlours, two very good parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard’s drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she was so fond of it, it should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink tea:—a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people.”  For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son’s wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.  With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.  “Well done, Mrs. Martin!” thought Emma. “You know what you are about.”  “And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her.”  “Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?”  “Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he has read a good deal—but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats—but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can.”  The next question was—  “What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?”  “Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often.”  “That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it.”  “To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—I mean by sight.”  “I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?”  “He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day’s difference—which is very odd.”  “Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable.”  “Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!”  “Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet.”  “To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year.”  “I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—for though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman’s daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you.”  “Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body can do.”  “You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer’s daughter, without education.”  “To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body but what had had some education—and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours—and I am sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it.”  Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty, on Harriet’s side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own.  They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet’s inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father’s gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.  They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose.  “Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?”  “He is very plain, undoubtedly—remarkably plain:—but that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility.”  “To be sure,” said Harriet, in a mortified voice, “he is not so genteel as real gentlemen.”  “I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature—and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here.”  “Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!”  “Mr. Knightley’s air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference.”  “Oh yes!—there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty.”  “Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston’s time of life?”  “There is no saying, indeed,” replied Harriet rather solemnly.  “But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss.”  “Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.”  “How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else—which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very rich man in time—and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb _us_.”  “I wonder he did not remember the book”—was all Harriet’s answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her next beginning was,  “In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are superior to Mr. Knightley’s or Mr. Weston’s. They have more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_, because there is so much good-humour with it—but that would not do to be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley’s downright, decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?”  She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.  Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young farmer out of Harriet’s head. She thought it would be an excellent match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body else must think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had entered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet’s coming to Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of its expediency. Mr. Elton’s situation was most suitable, quite the gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet. He had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known to have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him as a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.  She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet’s there could be little doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual weight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned very handsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her, there being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense with:—but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin’s riding about the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered by Mr. Elton’s admiration.     CHAPTER V   “I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Knightley, “of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing.”  “A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?—why so?”  “I think they will neither of them do the other any good.”  “You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel!—Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley.”  “Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle.”  “Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma’s friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know.”  “Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through—and very good lists they were—very well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.—You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.—You know you could not.”  “I dare say,” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “that I thought so _then_;—but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma’s omitting to do any thing I wished.”  “There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,”—said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. “But I,” he soon added, “who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother’s talents, and must have been under subjection to her.”  “I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_ recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse’s family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.”  “Yes,” said he, smiling. “You are better placed _here_; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor.”  “Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston.”  “Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him.”  “I hope not _that_.—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter.”  “Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma’s genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.—But Harriet Smith—I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma’s doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.—They only give a little polish.”  “I either depend more upon Emma’s good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!”  “Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma’s being pretty.”  “Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure?”  “I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend.”  “Such an eye!—the true hazle eye—and so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being ‘the picture of health;’ now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?”  “I have not a fault to find with her person,” he replied. “I think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.”  “And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma’s little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times.”  “Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me.”  “I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma’s mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith’s intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office.”  “Not at all,” cried he; “I am much obliged to you for it. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to.”  “Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister.”  “Be satisfied,” said he, “I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!”  “So do I,” said Mrs. Weston gently, “very much.”  “She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.”  “There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present,” said Mrs. Weston, “as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse’s account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you.”  Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston’s on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma’s destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to “What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?” convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield.     CHAPTER VI   Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s fancy a proper direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr. Elton’s being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners; and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating as much liking on Harriet’s side, as there could be any occasion for. She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton’s being in the fairest way of falling in love, if not in love already. She had no scruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add. His perception of the striking improvement of Harriet’s manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.  “You have given Miss Smith all that she required,” said he; “you have made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she came to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature.”  “I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have done very little.”  “If it were admissible to contradict a lady,” said the gallant Mr. Elton—  “I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before.”  “Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!”  “Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition more truly amiable.”  “I have no doubt of it.” And it was spoken with a sort of sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet’s picture.  “Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?” said she: “did you ever sit for your picture?”  Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say, with a very interesting naïveté,  “Oh! dear, no, never.”  No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,  “What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself. You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her picture!”  “Let me entreat you,” cried Mr. Elton; “it would indeed be a delight! Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?”  Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all that to do with taking likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don’t pretend to be in raptures about mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet’s face. “Well, if you give me such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do. Harriet’s features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch.”  “Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth—I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession.”  “But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering me? How completely it meant, ‘why should my picture be drawn?’”  “Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.”  Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made; and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to. She played and sang;—and drew in almost every style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved.  There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished, perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse’s performances must be capital.  “No great variety of faces for you,” said Emma. “I had only my own family to study from. There is my father—another of my father—but the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston again, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my kindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her. There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!—and the face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my attempts at three of those four children;—there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of them might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are coarser featured than any of mama’s children ever were. Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That’s very like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very good. Then here is my last,”—unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size, whole-length—“my last and my best—my brother, Mr. John Knightley.—This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made a very good likeness of it—(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it _very_ like)—only too handsome—too flattering—but that was a fault on the right side”—after all this, came poor dear Isabella’s cold approbation of—“Yes, it was a little like—but to be sure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning visitor in Brunswick Square;—and, as I said, I did then forswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet’s sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_ _present_, I will break my resolution now.”  Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was repeating, “No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,” with so interesting a consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must wait a little longer.  She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley’s, and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over the mantelpiece.  The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her to employ him in reading.  “If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.”  Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace. She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress, and be charmed.—There was no being displeased with such an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable.  The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to go on. There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined place with credit to them both—a standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton’s very promising attachment was likely to add.  Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.  “By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the party.”  The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.  “Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she wanted,”—observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the least suspecting that she was addressing a lover.—“The expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that she has them not.”  “Do you think so?” replied he. “I cannot agree with you. It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.”  “You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley.  Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly added,  “Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—which in short gives exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, fore-shortening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!”  “It is very pretty,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “So prettily done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders—and it makes one think she must catch cold.”  “But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer. Look at the tree.”  “But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.”  “You, sir, may say any thing,” cried Mr. Elton, “but I must confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other situation would have been much less in character. The naïveté of Miss Smith’s manners—and altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.”  The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert. “Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time. It was impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand.”  “He was too good!—she could not endure the thought!—she would not give him such a troublesome office for the world,”—brought on the desired repetition of entreaties and assurances,—and a very few minutes settled the business.  Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not being incommoded enough.  “What a precious deposit!” said he with a tender sigh, as he received it.  “This man is almost too gallant to be in love,” thought Emma. “I should say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of being in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an ‘Exactly so,’ as he says himself; but he does sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second. But it is his gratitude on Harriet’s account.”     CHAPTER VII   The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a fresh occasion for Emma’s services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard’s, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. “Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very much—but she did not know—and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.—” Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.  “Upon my word,” she cried, “the young man is determined not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can.”  “Will you read the letter?” cried Harriet. “Pray do. II’d rather you would.”  Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a “Well, well,” and was at last forced to add, “Is it a good letter? or is it too short?”  “Yes, indeed, a very good letter,” replied Emma rather slowly—“so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected.”  “Well,” said the still waiting Harriet;—“well—and—and what shall I do?”  “What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this letter?”  “Yes.”  “But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course—and speedily.”  “Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.”  “Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment.”  “You think I ought to refuse him then,” said Harriet, looking down.  “Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it.”  Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:  “You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.”  “No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do? What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do.”  “I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.”  “I had no notion that he liked me so very much,” said Harriet, contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,  “I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to ‘Yes,’ she ought to say ‘No’ directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence you.”  “Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but if you would just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I do not mean that—As you say, one’s mind ought to be quite made up—One should not be hesitating—It is a very serious thing.—It will be safer to say ‘No,’ perhaps.—Do you think I had better say ‘No?’”  “Not for the world,” said Emma, smiling graciously, “would I advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?”  The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said—  “Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind—to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?”  “Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever.”  Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her forcibly.  “You could not have visited me!” she cried, looking aghast. “No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have been too dreadful!—What an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the world.”  “Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I must have given you up.”  “Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!”  “Dear affectionate creature!—_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!—_You_ confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself.”  “I do not think he is conceited either, in general,” said Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; “at least, he is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard for—but that is quite a different thing from—and you know, though he may like me, it does not follow that I should—and certainly I must confess that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all, _one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me—and his writing such a letter—but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration.”  “Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.”  “Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too.”  Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a “very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a good letter.”  “Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But how shall I do? What shall I say?”  Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all.  This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton.  “I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,” was said in rather a sorrowful tone.  “Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill.”  “And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but at Hartfield.”  Some time afterwards it was, “I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-draper.”  “One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves.”  Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin.  “Now he has got my letter,” said she softly. “I wonder what they are all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much.”  “Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully employed,” cried Emma. “At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name.”  “My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bond-street.”  “Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!”  Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.     CHAPTER VIII   Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs. Goddard’s, but it was then to be settled that she should return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.  While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other.  “Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma’s advice and go out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people.”  “My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.”  “I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my three turns—my winter walk.”  “You cannot do better, sir.”  “I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides, you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey.”  “Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think the sooner _you_ go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you.”  Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.  “I cannot rate her beauty as you do,” said he; “but she is a pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman.”  “I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be wanting.”  “Come,” said he, “you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you that you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl’s giggle; she really does you credit.”  “Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they may. _You_ do not often overpower me with it.”  “You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?”  “Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she intended.”  “Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps.”  “Highbury gossips!—Tiresome wretches!”  “Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would.”  Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said nothing. He presently added, with a smile,  “I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to her advantage.”  “Indeed! how so? of what sort?”  “A very serious sort, I assure you;” still smiling.  “Very serious! I can think of but one thing—Who is in love with her? Who makes you their confidant?”  Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton’s having dropt a hint. Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to him.  “I have reason to think,” he replied, “that Harriet Smith will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter:—Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her.”  “He is very obliging,” said Emma; “but is he sure that Harriet means to marry him?”  “Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe, considers me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered (especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line of society above him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in the event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son and brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he could not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs. Goddard’s to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch.”  “Pray, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, who had been smiling to herself through a great part of this speech, “how do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?”  “Certainly,” replied he, surprized, “I do not absolutely know it; but it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?”  “Come,” said she, “I will tell you something, in return for what you have told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he wrote, and was refused.”  This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation, and said,  “Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the foolish girl about?”  “Oh! to be sure,” cried Emma, “it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.”  “Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken.”  “I saw her answer!—nothing could be clearer.”  “You saw her answer!—you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.”  “And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet’s equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over.”  “Not Harriet’s equal!” exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, “No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are Harriet Smith’s claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even _your_ satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend’s leaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well. I remember saying to myself, ‘Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.’”  “I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend! Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you mine are very different. I must think your statement by no means fair. You are not just to Harriet’s claims. They would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society.—The sphere in which she moves is much above his.—It would be a degradation.”  “A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!”  “As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay for the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with whom she is brought up.—There can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a gentleman—and a gentleman of fortune.—Her allowance is very liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or comfort.—That she is a gentleman’s daughter, is indubitable to me; that she associates with gentlemen’s daughters, no one, I apprehend, will deny.—She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin.”  “Whoever might be her parents,” said Mr. Knightley, “whoever may have had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard’s hands to shift as she can;—to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard’s line, to have Mrs. Goddard’s acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought this good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough. She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had encouragement.”  It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject again.  “You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are unjust to Harriet. Harriet’s claims to marry well are not so contemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from among many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.”  “Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do.”  “To be sure!” cried she playfully. “I know _that_ is the feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in—what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No—pray let her have time to look about her.”  “I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,” said Mr. Knightley presently, “though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity—and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s all the rest of her life—or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing-master’s son.”  “We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more angry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second application. She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do. His appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet.”  “Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!” cried Mr. Knightley.—“Robert Martin’s manners have sense, sincerity, and good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could understand.”  Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be; but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general, which made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him sitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable. Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt on Emma’s side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was thinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.  “Robert Martin has no great loss—if he can but think so; and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;—and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour in vain.”  Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,  “Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any body. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet’s. He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.”  “I am very much obliged to you,” said Emma, laughing again. “If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton’s marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.”  “Good morning to you,”—said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was very much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair, was provoking him exceedingly.  Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more indistinctness in the causes of her’s, than in his. She did not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her adversary’s wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet’s staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility of the young man’s coming to Mrs. Goddard’s that morning, and meeting with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any such reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr. Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which woman’s friendship and woman’s feelings would not justify.  He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of Mr. Knightley’s pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on such a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully to be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to money matters; he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all interested motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and more than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton.  Harriet’s cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard’s to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_ _particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would not put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her, “that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness.”     CHAPTER IX   Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.  The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton’s return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet’s feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin’s being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.  Her views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a great deal of useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet’s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.  In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard’s, had written out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as well as quantity.  Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in. “So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young—he wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time.” And it always ended in “Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.”  His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something, he thought, might come from that quarter.  It was by no means his daughter’s wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass his lips. They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,  My first doth affliction denote,     Which my second is destin’d to feel And my whole is the best antidote     That affliction to soften and heal.—   made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already.  “Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?” said she; “that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to you.”  “Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse”—he stopt a moment—“or Miss Smith could inspire him.”  The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.  “I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,” said he. “Being my friend’s, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.”  The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friend’s. He was gone the next moment:—after another moment’s pause,  “Take it,” said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards Harriet—“it is for you. Take your own.”  But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.  To Miss——   CHARADE.   My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,     Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease. Another view of man, my second brings,     Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!  But ah! united, what reverse we have!     Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown; Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,     And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,     May its approval beam in that soft eye!   She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope and dulness, “Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse charades. _Courtship_—a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly—‘Pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my intentions in the same glance.’  May its approval beam in that soft eye!   Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all epithets, the justest that could be given.  Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.   Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade indeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon now.”  She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the eagerness of Harriet’s wondering questions.  “What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I have not an idea—I cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it kingdom? I wonder who the friend was—and who could be the young lady. Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?  And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.   Can it be Neptune?  Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!   Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?”  “Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.  For Miss ———, read Miss Smith.  My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,     Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.   That is _court_.  Another view of man, my second brings;     Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!   That is _ship_;—plain as it can be.—Now for the cream.  But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!     Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown. Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,     And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.   A very proper compliment!—and then follows the application, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of its being written for you and to you.”  Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her.  “There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,” said she, “that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton’s intentions. You are his object—and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing but good. It will give you every thing that you want—consideration, independence, a proper home—it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us.”  “Dear Miss Woodhouse!”—and “Dear Miss Woodhouse,” was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she ought. Mr. Elton’s superiority had very ample acknowledgment.  “Whatever you say is always right,” cried Harriet, “and therefore I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton, who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses—‘To Miss ———.’ Dear me, how clever!—Could it really be meant for me?”  “I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by matter-of-fact prose.”  “It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure, a month ago, I had no more idea myself!—The strangest things do take place!”  “When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—they do indeed—and really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so evidently, so palpably desirable—what courts the pre-arrangement of other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form. You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.  The course of true love never did run smooth—   A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that passage.”  “That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, of all people, who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to, quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it; that he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!—The two Abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.”  “This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives every assurance of it;—if they wish to have you settled in the same country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the common phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy them.”  “Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This charade!—If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it.”  “I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it yesterday.”  “I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read.”  “I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.”  “It is as long again as almost all we have had before.”  “I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things in general cannot be too short.”  Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind.  “It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a glow—“to have very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like this.”  Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s prose.  “Such sweet lines!” continued Harriet—“these two last!—But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?”  “Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed.—Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me.”  “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.”  “Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not write it into your book.”  “Oh! but those two lines are”—  —“The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment; and for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know, because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be no possible reflection on you.”  Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity.  “I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,” said she.  “Very well,” replied Emma; “a most natural feeling; and the longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us all!—You must let me read it to him.”  Harriet looked grave.  “My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.—You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade.”  “Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.”  Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of “Well, my dears, how does your book go on?—Have you got any thing fresh?”  “Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this morning—(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)—containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in.”  She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every part as she proceeded—and he was very much pleased, and, as she had foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.  “Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. Very true. ‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it.—Nobody could have written so prettily, but you, Emma.”  Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little thinking, and a very tender sigh, he added,  “Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can remember nothing;—not even that particular riddle which you have heard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are several.  Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,     Kindled a flame I yet deplore, The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid, Though of his near approach afraid,     So fatal to my suit before.   And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clever all the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.”  “Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.”  “Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it.  Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.   The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her—and what room there will be for the children?”  “Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room she always has;—and there is the nursery for the children,—just as usual, you know. Why should there be any change?”  “I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she was here!—not since last Easter, and then only for a few days.—Mr. John Knightley’s being a lawyer is very inconvenient.—Poor Isabella!—she is sadly taken away from us all!—and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss Taylor here!”  “She will not be surprized, papa, at least.”  “I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I first heard she was going to be married.”  “We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is here.”  “Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very depressed tone)—she is coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing.”  “It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it seems a case of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this Christmas—though you know it is longer since they were with him, than with us.”  “It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be anywhere but at Hartfield.”  Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s claims on his brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing a little while, and then said,  “But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well.”  “Ah! papa—that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her husband.”  This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughter’s attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.  “Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children. We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?”  “Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.”  “I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not.”  “Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second, is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will come and stand by my chair, and say, ‘Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?’ and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with them very often.”  “He appears rough to you,” said Emma, “because you are so very gentle yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an affectionate father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father. The children are all fond of him.”  “And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful way!”  “But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other.”  “Well, I cannot understand it.”  “That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.”  Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four o’clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push—of having thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse’s party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him—had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come.  Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged—she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it—  “Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith’s collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines.”  Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly—rather confused; said something about “honour,”—glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,  “You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman’s approbation while he writes with such gallantry.”  “I have no hesitation in saying,” replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; “I have no hesitation in saying—at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do—I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life.”  After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet’s share.     CHAPTER X   Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury.  Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.—Emma’s remark was—  “There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days.”—Harriet’s was—  “Oh, what a sweet house!—How very beautiful!—There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much.”  “I do not often walk this way _now_,” said Emma, as they proceeded, “but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury.”  Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton’s seeing ready wit in her.  “I wish we could contrive it,” said she; “but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper—no message from my father.”  She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again—  “I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!”—  Emma laughed, and replied,  “My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming—one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all.”  “Ah!—so you say; but I cannot believe it.”  “I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it.”  “Dear me!—it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!”—  “I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in my father’s.”  “But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!”  “That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly—so satisfied—so smiling—so prosing—so undistinguishing and unfastidious—and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried.”  “But still, you will be an old maid! and that’s so dreadful!”  “Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm.”  “Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?”  “If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman’s usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!—I shall often have a niece with me.”  “Do you know Miss Bates’s niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times—but are you acquainted?”  “Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death.”  They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,  “These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!—I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?”  “Very true,” said Harriet. “Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else.”  “And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,” said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. “I do not think it will,” stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within.  “Oh! dear, no,” said her companion.  They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther,  “Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves.”  Harriet could just answer, “Oh! dear, yes,” before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them.  “To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,” thought Emma; “to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else.”  Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet’s habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child’s pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them.  Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday’s party at his friend Cole’s, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the dessert.  “This would soon have led to something better, of course,” was her consoling reflection; “any thing interests between those who love; and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I could but have kept longer away!”  They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.  “Part of my lace is gone,” said she, “and I do not know how I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just to keep my boot on.”  Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her appearance.  The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.  “Cautious, very cautious,” thought Emma; “he advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure.”  Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.     CHAPTER XI   Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma’s power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her sister’s family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected—she did not herself expect—that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.  Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella’s sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit.  He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them.  Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.  Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.  He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella’s sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma’s charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter’s attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.  “Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor—It is a grievous business.”  “Oh yes, sir,” cried she with ready sympathy, “how you must miss her! And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful loss to you both!—I have been so grieved for you.—I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her.—It is a sad change indeed.—But I hope she is pretty well, sir.”  “Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably.”  Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls.  “Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life—never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.”  “Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome reply.  “And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father.  Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.—“Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.”  “Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated—which is the exact truth.”  “Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma’s account, I hope you will be satisfied.”  “Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse—“yes, certainly—I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often—but then—she is always obliged to go away again.”  “It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.—You quite forget poor Mr. Weston.”  “I think, indeed,” said John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.”  “Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.— “Are you talking about me?—I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last Easter—and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.—If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”  “Where is the young man?” said John Knightley. “Has he been here on this occasion—or has he not?”  “He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.”  “But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said her father. “He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps—”  “My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”  “Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well, I could not have thought it—and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!—and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th—and began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on; and it was signed ‘F. C. Weston Churchill.’—I remember that perfectly.”  “How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one’s child! I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else.”  “Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. “But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that home affords.”  Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted her brother’s disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important.—It had a high claim to forbearance.     CHAPTER XII   Mr. Knightley was to dine with them—rather against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in Isabella’s first day. Emma’s sense of right however had decided it; and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.  She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly had not been in the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had. Concession must be out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children with her—the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about in her aunt’s arms. It did assist; for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,  “What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”  “If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike.”  “To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being in the wrong.”  “Yes,” said he, smiling—“and reason good. I was sixteen years old when you were born.”  “A material difference then,” she replied—“and no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?”  “Yes—a good deal _nearer_.”  “But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we think differently.”  “I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”  “That’s true,” she cried—“very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”  “A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full answer.  “Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands with me.”  This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley made his appearance, and “How d’ye do, George?” and “John, how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other.  The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing—and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other.  The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness.  While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.  “My poor dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children—“How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear—and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.—You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel.”  Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;—and two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,  “It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air.”  “Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir—or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella’s throat,—both sea air and bathing.”  “Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once.”  “Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, “I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;—I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you.”  “Oh! good Mr. Perry—how is he, sir?”  “Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself—he tells me he has not time to take care of himself—which is very sad—but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where.”  “And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones.”  “I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella’s throat.”  “Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield’s, which we have been applying at times ever since August.”  “It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her—and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to—  “You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” said Emma, “I have not heard one inquiry after them.”  “Oh! the good Bateses—I am quite ashamed of myself—but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates—I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.—They are always so pleased to see my children.—And that excellent Miss Bates!—such thorough worthy people!—How are they, sir?”  “Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago.”  “How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy—except when it has been quite an influenza.”  “That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season.”  “No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except—  “Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!—and the air so bad!”  “No, indeed—_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!—You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;—there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!—Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air.”  “Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it—but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present.”  “I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.  “Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well.”  “What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?” cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.  “I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well—but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home.”  “My dear Isabella,”—exclaimed he hastily—“pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse.”  “I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,” cried Emma, “about your friend Mr. Graham’s intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?”  And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella’s kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising.  “That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John Knightley.—“It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always regret excessively on dear Emma’s account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma.”  Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,  “Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet.”  “I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so very accomplished and superior!—and exactly Emma’s age.”  This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said—much praise and many comments—undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerably;—but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.  “Ah!” said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern.—The ejaculation in Emma’s ear expressed, “Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It does not bear talking of.” And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with,  “I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn, instead of coming here.”  “But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did the children a great deal of good.”  “And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End.”  “I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite a mistake, sir.—We all had our health perfectly well there, never found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly.”  “You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.—Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And, by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea—a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have consulted Perry.”  “But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only consider how great it would have been.—An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”  “Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to chuse between forty miles and an hundred.—Better not move at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.”  Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law’s breaking out.  “Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, “would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do?—at my taking my family to one part of the coast or another?—I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.—I want his directions no more than his drugs.” He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.”  “True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition—“very true. That’s a consideration indeed.—But John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion.”  Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;—but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.     CHAPTER XIII   There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful visit;—perfect, in being much too short.  In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;—even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the party.  How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter’s carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also.  Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the only persons invited to meet them;—the hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being consulted in every thing.  The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears.  Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard’s unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton’s would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard’s door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some report of her to Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend’s complaint;—“a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them.” Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed,  “A sore-throat!—I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?”  Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard’s experience and care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards—as if quite another subject,  “It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day—and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.”  Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her’s, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;—but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being “very cold, certainly very cold,” and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening.  “You do quite right,” said she;—“we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.”  But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton’s only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her.  “Well,” said she to herself, “this is most strange!—After I had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind!—Most strange indeed!—But there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination—such a passion for dining out—a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives way to it—and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.”  Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard’s for news of her fair friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour.  After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with—  “I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works.”  “Mr. Elton’s manners are not perfect,” replied Emma; “but where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value.”  “Yes,” said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, “he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards you.”  “Me!” she replied with a smile of astonishment, “are you imagining me to be Mr. Elton’s object?”  “Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now.”  “Mr. Elton in love with me!—What an idea!”  “I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.”  “I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more;” and she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more.  Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time.  Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his discontent.  “A man,” said he, “must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity—Actually snowing at this moment!—The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home—and the folly of people’s not staying comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it;—and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can;—here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home.”  Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the “Very true, my love,” which must have been usually administered by his travelling companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening her lips.  They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, “Much the same—not better.”  “_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard’s,” said she presently, “was not so pleasant as I had hoped—‘Not better’ was _my_ answer.”  His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered.  “Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of telling you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard’s door, which I did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned—I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had been given her in the morning.”  Emma smiled and answered—“My visit was of use to the nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard.”  “Yes—I imagined—that is—I did not—”  “He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!”  “Dreadful!—Exactly so, indeed.—She will be missed every moment.”  This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.  “What an excellent device,” said he, “the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;—impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman’s carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon—but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.—Ha! snows a little I see.”  “Yes,” said John Knightley, “and I think we shall have a good deal of it.”  “Christmas weather,” observed Mr. Elton. “Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day’s party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend’s house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se’nnight.”  Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly,  “I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.”  At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton’s spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.  “We are sure of excellent fires,” continued he, “and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;—Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;—it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston’s dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings.”  “I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I never dine with any body.”  “Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment.”  “My first enjoyment,” replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, “will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again.”     CHAPTER XIV   Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston’s drawing-room;—Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.—Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour’s uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.  This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day’s visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton’s oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost.  The misfortune of Harriet’s cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella’s coming, and of Emma’s being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma.  Emma’s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of “Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?—Absurd and insufferable!”—Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet’s, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton’s nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words “my son,” and “Frank,” and “my son,” repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward.  Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma’s resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently thought—especially since his father’s marriage with Miss Taylor—that if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends’ imaginations.  With such sensations, Mr. Elton’s civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very cross—and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.—So it proved;—for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her,  “We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see two more here,—your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son—and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight.”  Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete.  “He has been wanting to come to us,” continued Mr. Weston, “ever since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January.”  “What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as yourself.”  “Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is—(but this is quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are secrets in all families, you know)—The case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank’s coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing.”  “I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case,” replied Emma; “but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe.”  “Yes—I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at the place in my life.—She is an odd woman!—But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank’s account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way—allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper.”  Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy—yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.— Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: “for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?”  “Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world.”  “My Emma!” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “what is the certainty of caprice?” Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before—“You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt’s spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper. To you—to my two daughters—I may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him.”  “Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,” replied Isabella: “and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!”  Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable.  While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying,  “And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.”  “Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills’ to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine.”  “He ought to come,” said Emma. “If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man’s not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_’s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it.”  “One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do,” replied Mrs. Weston. “One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her.”  “But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all.”  “My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will be.”  Emma listened, and then coolly said, “I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes.”  “He may have a great deal of influence on some points,” continued Mrs. Weston, “and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us.”     CHAPTER XV   Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.  Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles.  He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend—her fair, lovely, amiable friend. “Did she know?—had she heard any thing about her, since their being at Randalls?—he felt much anxiety—he must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.” And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.  But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on Harriet’s—more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present—to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear—there was no concealing it—exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, “Would not she give him her support?—would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard’s till it were certain that Miss Smith’s disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise—would not she give him her influence in procuring it?”  “So scrupulous for others,” he continued, “and yet so careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?—Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.”  Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.  She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:  “This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow.”  Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.  “I admired your resolution very much, sir,” said he, “in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight.”  Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.  “What is to be done, my dear Emma?—what is to be done?” was Mr. Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little.  His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.  “You had better order the carriage directly, my love,” said she; “I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold.”  “Indeed!” replied he. “Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing does give you cold. Walk home!—you are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses.”  Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs. Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room immediately after his brother’s first report of the snow, came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep—some way along the Highbury road—the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep—in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend.  To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father’s account, who was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus—  “Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”  “I am ready, if the others are.”  “Shall I ring the bell?”  “Yes, do.”  And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness when this visit of hardship were over.  The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. “He was afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind. He did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together as they could;” and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage.  Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally; so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they were to have a tête-à-tête drive. It would not have been the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but one. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine, and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.  To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her subject cut up—her hand seized—her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known, hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short, very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was so. Without scruple—without apology—without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself _her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she replied,  “I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget yourself—you take me for my friend—any message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please.”  “Miss Smith!—message to Miss Smith!—What could she possibly mean!”—And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness,  “Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.”  But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—but acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer.  As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied,  “It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to Miss Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing—to be addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions.”  “Good Heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the meaning of this?—Miss Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry—extremely sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an accent meant to be insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood me.”  It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this—which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed—  “Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that you have long understood me.”  “No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giving way to any feelings—Nothing could be farther from my wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?—that you have never thought seriously of her?”  “Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I assure you. _I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to—Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!—No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I received—”  “Encouragement!—I give you encouragement!—Sir, you have been entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present.”  He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another syllable passed.—Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield.  There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage Lane—turning a corner which he could never bear to think of—and in strange hands—a mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem—if not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel—perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party, except herself.—But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.     CHAPTER XVI   The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable.—It was a wretched business indeed!—Such an overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!—Such a development of every thing most unwelcome!—Such a blow for Harriet!—that was the worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken—more in error—more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.  “If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me—but poor Harriet!”  How she could have been so deceived!—He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet—never! She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.  The picture!—How eager he had been about the picture!—and the charade!—and an hundred other circumstances;—how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its “ready wit”—but then the “soft eyes”—in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense?  Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet’s friend.  To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others.  Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten.  But—that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry him!—should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!—look down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing her!—It was most provoking.  Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family—and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility.—But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite. If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers.  The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.  “Here have I,” said she, “actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;—William Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe—a pert young lawyer.”  She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully.  To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope.  Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it.  It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him—that Harriet’s nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive—and that there could be no necessity for any body’s knowing what had passed except the three principals, and especially for her father’s being given a moment’s uneasiness about it.  These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.  The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton’s absenting himself.  It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from them,—  “Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?”  These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.     CHAPTER XVII   Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;—which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.  The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton’s best compliments, “that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense—and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to them.”  Emma was most agreeably surprized.—Mr. Elton’s absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening compliments.—Her name was not mentioned;—and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape her father’s suspicion.  It did, however.—Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude.  She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman’s return. She went to Mrs. Goddard’s accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was.—She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding—to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred—and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks.  The confession completely renewed her first shame—and the sight of Harriet’s tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again.  Harriet bore the intelligence very well—blaming nobody—and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend.  Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet’s side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction.—She never could have deserved him—and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible.  Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma’s eyes—and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding—really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two—and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do.  It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father’s claims, was to promote Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.  Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet’s age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton’s return, as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them.  Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any body equal to him in person or goodness—and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal force.  If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet’s persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him.  Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other, and make the best of it.  Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.     CHAPTER XVIII   Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston’s fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his “very great mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period.”  Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank’s coming two or three months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.  These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.  Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship.  She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston’s arguments against herself.  “The Churchills are very likely in fault,” said Mr. Knightley, coolly; “but I dare say he might come if he would.”  “I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.”  “I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof.”  “How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?”  “I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January. A man at his age—what is he?—three or four-and-twenty—cannot be without the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible.”  “That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers to manage.”  “It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want money—he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Churchills.”  “Yes, sometimes he can.”  “And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever there is any temptation of pleasure.”  “It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill’s temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others.”  “There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill—‘Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.’—If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going.”  “No,” said Emma, laughing; “but perhaps there might be some made to his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to use!—Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for him!—Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!—How can you imagine such conduct practicable?”  “Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration—made, of course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner—would do him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend to his.”  “I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it.”  “Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.”  “Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his life.”  “Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of following his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now.”  “We shall never agree about him,” cried Emma; “but that is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man’s perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others.”  “Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father’s having any right to complain. His letters disgust me.”  “Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else.”  “I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother’s place, but without a mother’s affection to blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very ‘amiable,’ have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him.”  “You seem determined to think ill of him.”  “Me!—not at all,” replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; “I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.”  “Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest—one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of nobody else.”  “You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.”  “My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my idea of him.”  “And mine,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “is, that if he turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company—the great man—the practised politician, who is to read every body’s character, and make every body’s talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point.”  “I will say no more about him,” cried Emma, “you turn every thing to evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here.”  “Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.”  “But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.”  “He is a person I never think of from one month’s end to another,” said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be angry.  To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of another.     VOLUME II     CHAPTER I   Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma’s opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could not think that Harriet’s solace or her own sins required more; and she was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they returned;—but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded, and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive—“Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!” she found something else must be done.  They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates. She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts.  She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart, as to her deficiency—but none were equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very disagreeable,—a waste of time—tiresome women—and all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not passing their door without going in—observing, as she proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.  The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about her mother’s, and sweet-cake from the beaufet—“Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them, and _she_ had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too.”  The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton. There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies’ ball had been; and she went through it very well, with all the interest and all the commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet’s being obliged to say a word.  This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.  “Oh! yes—Mr. Elton, I understand—certainly as to dancing—Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was—Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, ‘I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing;’ and when I immediately said, ‘But indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning,’ I do not know that I ever saw any body more surprized. ‘Have you, upon your honour?’ said she; ‘well, that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.’”  Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest—  “Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I hope she is well?”  “Thank you. You are so kind!” replied the happily deceived aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.—“Oh! here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her—a letter from Jane—that she can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my huswife—and since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;—but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter—only two pages you see—hardly two—and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, ‘Well, Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work’—don’t you, ma’am?—And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her—every word of it—I am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And, indeed, though my mother’s eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here, ‘I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you do—and so much fine work as you have done too!—I only wish my eyes may last me as well.’”  All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath; and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax’s handwriting.  “You are extremely kind,” replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; “you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is nobody’s praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse’s. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma’am,” addressing her, “do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane’s handwriting?”  And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.  “My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see—just nothing at all. By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me. Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my mother’s time of life—and it really is full two years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now.”  “Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?”  “Oh yes; next week.”  “Indeed!—that must be a very great pleasure.”  “Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday.”  “Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.”  “So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My mother is so delighted!—for she is to be three months with us at least. Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again—for till she married, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her mother—or her father, I declare I do not know which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote in Mr. Dixon’s name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean—I do not know that she ever heard about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his addresses—and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them—for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughter’s not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of things.”  At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma’s brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther discovery,  “You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”  “Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance from us, for months together—not able to come if any thing was to happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit— (I can never think of it without trembling!)—But ever since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!”  “But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?”  “Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.”  “I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax.”  “Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things—but certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain—but extremely elegant and amiable.”  “Yes, that of course.”  “Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!—But however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her—and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.”  “It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.”  “And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following—as you will find from Jane’s letter. So sudden!—You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane’s letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with ‘Bless me! poor Jane is ill!’—which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her.”  “I am afraid we must be running away,” said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise—“My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning.”  And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street—happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax’s letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.     CHAPTER II   Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates’s youngest daughter.  The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ——regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad—of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards—and this girl.  By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.  But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about Jane’s age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his daughter’s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell’s family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.  The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell’s power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter’s; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.  Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell’s residence being in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over.  The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane’s decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.  This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.  The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness:—what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter’s marriage; and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort.  With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two years’ absence.  Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long months!—to be always doing more than she wished, and less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But “she could never get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve—such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not—and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!—and she was made such a fuss with by every body!—and it had been always imagined that they were to be so intimate—because their ages were the same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other.” These were her reasons—she had no better.  It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years’ interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her face—her features—there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it:—elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit.  In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty; when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on. Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon’s affections from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty.  Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her.  These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, “She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!” Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane’s offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.  If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon’s character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.  The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. “Was he handsome?”—“She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man.” “Was he agreeable?”—“He was generally thought so.” “Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?”—“At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing.” Emma could not forgive her.     CHAPTER III   Emma could not forgive her;—but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.  “A very pleasant evening,” he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;—“particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother’s, it must have been a real indulgence.”  “I am happy you approved,” said Emma, smiling; “but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”  “No, my dear,” said her father instantly; “_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night—if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough.”  “No,” said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; “you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore.”  An arch look expressed—“I understand you well enough;” but she said only, “Miss Fairfax is reserved.”  “I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured.”  “You think her diffident. I do not see it.”  “My dear Emma,” said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, “you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening.”  “Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained.”  “I am disappointed,” was his only answer.  “I hope every body had a pleasant evening,” said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.”  “True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.”  Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question—  “She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one’s eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart.”  Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates’s, said—  “It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished—but it is so little one can venture to do—small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon—Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other pork—but still it is pork—and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork—I think we had better send the leg—do not you think so, my dear?”  “My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.”  “That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.”  “Emma,” said Mr. Knightley presently, “I have a piece of news for you. You like news—and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you.”  “News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?—why do you smile so?—where did you hear it?—at Randalls?”  He had time only to say,  “No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,” when the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him.  “Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse—I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married.”  Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the sound.  “There is my news:—I thought it would interest you,” said Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had passed between them.  “But where could _you_ hear it?” cried Miss Bates. “Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole’s note—no, it cannot be more than five—or at least ten—for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out—I was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork—Jane was standing in the passage—were not you, Jane?—for my mother was so afraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, ‘Shall I go down instead? for I think you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.’—‘Oh! my dear,’ said I—well, and just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins—that’s all I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins—”  “I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just read Elton’s letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly.”  “Well! that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece of news more generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you really quite oppress her.”  “We consider our Hartfield pork,” replied Mr. Woodhouse—“indeed it certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater pleasure than—”  “Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We may well say that ‘our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.’ Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well—”  “It was short—merely to announce—but cheerful, exulting, of course.”— Here was a sly glance at Emma. “He had been so fortunate as to—I forget the precise words—one has no business to remember them. The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By his style, I should imagine it just settled.”  “Mr. Elton going to be married!” said Emma, as soon as she could speak. “He will have every body’s wishes for his happiness.”  “He is very young to settle,” was Mr. Woodhouse’s observation. “He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We were always glad to see him at Hartfield.”  “A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!” said Miss Bates, joyfully; “my mother is so pleased!—she says she cannot bear to have the poor old Vicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have never seen Mr. Elton!—no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see him.”  Jane’s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to occupy her.  “No—I have never seen Mr. Elton,” she replied, starting on this appeal; “is he—is he a tall man?”  “Who shall answer that question?” cried Emma. “My father would say ‘yes,’ Mr. Knightley ‘no;’ and Miss Bates and I that he is just the happy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax, you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury, both in person and mind.”  “Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young man—But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,—I dare say, an excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother—wanting her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my mother is a little deaf, you know—it is not much, but she does not hear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He fancied bathing might be good for it—the warm bath—but she says it did him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel. And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It is such a happiness when good people get together—and they always do. Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people; and the Perrys—I suppose there never was a happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,” turning to Mr. Woodhouse, “I think there are few places with such society as Highbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours.—My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is pork—a roast loin of pork—”  “As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted with her,” said Emma, “nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four weeks.”  Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings, Emma said,  “You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to take an interest in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell’s account—we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins.”  “When I have seen Mr. Elton,” replied Jane, “I dare say I shall be interested—but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn off.”  “Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss Woodhouse,” said Miss Bates, “four weeks yesterday.—A Miss Hawkins!—Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that I ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I immediately said, ‘No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man—but’—In short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired—Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in person—tall, and with that sort of look—and not very talkative.”  “Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.”  “Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand. One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?”  “Handsome! Oh! no—far from it—certainly plain. I told you he was plain.”  “My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain, and that you yourself—”  “Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him plain.”  “Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole’s; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home directly—I would not have you out in a shower!—We think she is the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so very!—I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm.—Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!—Good morning to you.”  Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry—and to marry strangers too—and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it—and all that she could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!—and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard’s, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.  The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!” which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. “She had set out from Mrs. Goddard’s half an hour ago—she had been afraid it would rain—she had been afraid it would pour down every moment—but she thought she might get to Hartfield first—she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford’s.”—Ford’s was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher’s shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.—“And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps—when, all of a sudden, who should come in—to be sure it was so very odd!—but they always dealt at Ford’s—who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!—Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door—Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!—Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there.—Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse—well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me—(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)—for presently she came forward—came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no more what I said—I was in such a tremble!—I remember she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting away—and then—only think!—I found he was coming up towards me too—slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I answered—and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one can’t tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole’s stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables—I believe I did—but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and make me comfortable again.”  Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly comfortable herself. The young man’s conduct, and his sister’s, seemed the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed them to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did this make in the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose her—they must be all sorry. Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet’s acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of Harriet’s description?—So easily pleased—so little discerning;—what signified her praise?  She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt on,  “It might be distressing, for the moment,” said she; “but you seem to have behaved extremely well; and it is over—and may never—can never, as a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about it.”  Harriet said, “very true,” and she “would not think about it;” but still she talked of it—still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma, at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet—such a conclusion of Mr. Elton’s importance with her!  Mr. Elton’s rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an hour before, its interest soon increased; and before their first conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in her fancy.  Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard’s; and a twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again, with any necessity, or even any power of speech.     CHAPTER IV   Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.  A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose music she principally played.  Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and mortified—disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended—he came back engaged to another—and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.  The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself away—he had gained a woman of 10,000 _l_. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity—the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious—the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green’s, and the party at Mrs. Brown’s—smiles and blushes rising in importance—with consciousness and agitation richly scattered—the lady had been so easily impressed—so sweetly disposed—had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented.  He had caught both substance and shadow—both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own concerns—expecting to be congratulated—ready to be laughed at—and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously gallant.  The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole’s did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.  During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction.  The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented—many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility again.  Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury—handsome enough—to look plain, probably, by Harriet’s side. As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet’s superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol—merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained—in the law line—nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.  Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet’s mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess—all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins’s happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!—his air as he walked by the house—the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!  Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet’s mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton’s engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin’s calling at Mrs. Goddard’s a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin’s visit.  How that visit was to be acknowledged—what would be necessary—and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance—!  After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet’s returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future.  She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve—something of ingratitude, merely glossed over—it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?     CHAPTER V   Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev. Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into the butcher’s cart, which was to convey it to where the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk and the direction, was consequently a blank.  She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who was married, and settled in Donwell.  The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again; and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the gravel walk—a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility.  Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been talked almost all the time—till just at last, when Mrs. Martin’s saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two friends. There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window. _He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion—to feel the same consciousness, the same regrets—to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!—Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a _little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?—Impossible!—She could not repent. They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process—so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.  It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither “master nor mistress was at home;” they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.  “This is too bad,” cried Emma, as they turned away. “And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!—I do not know when I have been so disappointed.” And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both—such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound—for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with,  “How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting with your father—glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow—I had a letter this morning—we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty—he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish.”  There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment’s thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more.  Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated.  “I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,” said he, at the conclusion.  Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife.  “We had better move on, Mr. Weston,” said she, “we are detaining the girls.”  “Well, well, I am ready;”—and turning again to Emma, “but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:”—though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction.  Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing.  “Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o’clock,” was Mrs. Weston’s parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her.  “Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by three,” was Mr. Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma’s spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.  “Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?”—was a question, however, which did not augur much.  But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.  The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston’s faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o’clock, that she was to think of her at four.  “My dear, dear anxious friend,”—said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, “always overcareful for every body’s comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.” The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. “’Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon.”  She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father—Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank’s being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.  The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her—he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father’s; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.  He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.  “I told you yesterday,” cried Mr. Weston with exultation, “I told you all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one’s friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs.”  “It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,” said the young man, “though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing.”  The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one’s _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma’s brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment.  Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,—“Was she a horsewoman?—Pleasant rides?—Pleasant walks?—Had they a large neighbourhood?—Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?—There were several very pretty houses in and about it.—Balls—had they balls?—Was it a musical society?”  But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please—and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. “His father’s marriage,” he said, “had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him.”  He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor’s merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.  “Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,” said he; “but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston.”  “You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,” said Emma; “were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don’t let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman.”  “I hope I should know better,” he replied; “no, depend upon it, (with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms.”  Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable.  She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening.  Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.—Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons’ understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill’s accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold—which, however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till after another night.  A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.—“He must be going. He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford’s, but he need not hurry any body else.” His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,  “As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name—I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?”  “To be sure we do,” cried his father; “Mrs. Bates—we passed her house—I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call upon her, by all means.”  “There is no necessity for my calling this morning,” said the young man; “another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which—”  “Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight.”  The son looked convinced.  “I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,” said Emma; “she is a very elegant young woman.”  He agreed to it, but with so quiet a “Yes,” as inclined her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it.  “If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,” said she, “I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and hear her—no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue.”  “You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?” said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; “then give me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to shew you the way.”  “My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me.”  “But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown, quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had best cross the street.”  Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could, and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, “My good friend, this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and jump.”  They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confidence in their comfort.     CHAPTER VI   The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.—“He did not doubt there being very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant attraction.”—Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him. They walked thither directly.  Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her—nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all three walking about together for an hour or two—first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed.  Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and which had been the home of his father’s father; and on recollecting that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must be very like a merit to those he was with.  Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice.  Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;—but such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room?—She who could do any thing in Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body’s returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits.  At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it.  “Yes, oh! yes”—he replied; “I was just going to mention it. A very successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him—but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.”  “And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”  “Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.—A most deplorable want of complexion.”  Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax’s complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face.” He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same—but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was—fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was.  “Well,” said Emma, “there is no disputing about taste.—At least you admire her except her complexion.”  He shook his head and laughed.—“I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion.”  “Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?”  At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he hastily exclaimed, “Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford’s. It will be taking out my freedom.—I dare say they sell gloves.”  “Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston’s son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues.”  They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of “Men’s Beavers” and “York Tan” were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said—“But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life.”  “I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth.”  “And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.—I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.”  “Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her.”  “May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all.”  “You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?”  “Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.”  “You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston smiling; “remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s situation in life. I will move a little farther off.”  “I certainly do forget to think of _her_,” said Emma, “as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.”  He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.  When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, “Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?” said Frank Churchill.  “Ever hear her!” repeated Emma. “You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly.”  “You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.—I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body’s performance.—I have been used to hear her’s admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:—a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman—engaged to her—on the point of marriage—would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead—never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.”  “Proof indeed!” said Emma, highly amused.—“Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.”  “Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof.”  “Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man’s having more music than love—more ear than eye—a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?”  “It was her very particular friend, you know.”  “Poor comfort!” said Emma, laughing. “One would rather have a stranger preferred than one’s very particular friend—with a stranger it might not recur again—but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!—Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.”  “You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it.”  “So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her—quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling—there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction.”  “As to that—I do not—”  “Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax’s sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.”  “There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all—” he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, “however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were—how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be.”  “I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,—that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve—I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved.”  “It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,” said he. “Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.”  “Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body’s reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her—not the least—except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal.”  He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate—his feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr. Elton’s house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who wanted more.  Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.     CHAPTER VII   Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that “all young people would have their little whims.”  With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself—how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very open temper—certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him—said he would be the best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own indifference—(for still her resolution held of never marrying)—the honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance.  Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely—thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, “all young people would have their little whims.”  There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man—one who smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles—Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, “Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for.” She had half a mind to resent; but an instant’s observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.  Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave.  This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people—friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase of means—the house in town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite—neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father’s known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.  But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston’s accounting for it with “I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not dine out,” was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.  It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first remark, on reading it, was that “of course it must be declined,” she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.  She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so properly—there was so much real attention in the manner of it—so much consideration for her father. “They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his company.” Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comfort—how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bearing him company—Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.  “I am not fond of dinner-visiting,” said he—“I never was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us—take us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any body to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.” Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach—“Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home with me.”  “Well, sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “as I took Miss Taylor away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it.”  But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged.  With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual. “He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs. Cole.”  “You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is over.”  “But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?”  “Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many people talking at once. You will not like the noise.”  “But, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “if Emma comes away early, it will be breaking up the party.”  “And no great harm if it does,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The sooner every party breaks up, the better.”  “But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma’s going away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any body’s hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse’s doing it would be more thought of than any other person’s in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these _ten_ years.”  “No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious—Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends.”  “Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time—and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit up.”  He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in the house, as usual.     CHAPTER VIII   Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father’s dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which could be concealed.  He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—  “I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is _not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities.—No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.”  With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were now seeing them together for the first time.  She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr. Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.  Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged them to practise during the meal.—She had provided a plentiful dinner for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat it.  She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses, having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence, was too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.  “This is coming as you should do,” said she; “like a gentleman.—I am quite glad to see you.”  He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should arrive at the same moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.—You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.”  “Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_ you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_ I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you.”  “Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger.  Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by her—and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side.  The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family, the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte—a very elegant looking instrument—not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood’s the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece—entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates’s account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it—but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;—of course it must be from Colonel Campbell.  “One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole, “and I was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her.”  Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole.  “I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!—It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.—I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought—or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.—We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening.”  Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned to Frank Churchill.  “Why do you smile?” said she.  “Nay, why do you?”  “Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s being so rich and so liberal.—It is a handsome present.”  “Very.”  “I rather wonder that it was never made before.”  “Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.”  “Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument—which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body.”  “That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates’s house.”  “You may _say_ what you chuse—but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine.”  “I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?”  “What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”  “Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine.”  “If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them.”  “Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.”  “Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.—I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.—In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body’s native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her’s. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are.”  “And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon’s preference of her music to her friend’s, I can answer for being very decided.”  “And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?—A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”  “He did. I was there—one of the party.”  “Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had been there, I think I should have made some discoveries.”  “I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.—It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries.”  The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said,  “The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”  “And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells.”  “No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business.”  “Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love.”  There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the other—nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes.  The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat—and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having loved—yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain—by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend.  In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her. She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of “my excellent friend Colonel Campbell.”  Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine’s countenance.  They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. “He had never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her naïveté.” And she, “Only to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.” Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence.  Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room—hated sitting long—was always the first to move when he could—that his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over parish business—that as long as he had staid, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether—thought it so abundant in agreeable families—that Emma began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire—the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families, none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty, without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.  She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad—had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel—but she would not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he said, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.  The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father.  “I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a short pause.— “I have been here a week to-morrow—half my time. I never knew days fly so fast. A week to-morrow!—And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!—I hate the recollection.”  “Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out of so few, in having your hair cut.”  “No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all. I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be seen.”  The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.  “What is the matter?” said she.  He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I believe I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way—so very odd a way—that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw any thing so outrée!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I see nobody else looking like her!—I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?—Yes, I will—I declare I will—and you shall see how she takes it;—whether she colours.”  He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.  Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.  “This is the luxury of a large party,” said she:—“one can get near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece came here?”  “How?—They were invited, were not they?”  “Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the manner of their coming?”  “They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?”  “Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!’—but with many, many thanks—‘there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.’ I was quite surprized;—very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a very kind attention—and so thoughtful an attention!—the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them.”  “Very likely,” said Emma—“nothing more likely. I know no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing—to do any thing really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax’s ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;—and for an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day—for we arrived together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that could betray.”  “Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you company!—What do you say to it?”  “Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must not marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?—Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you should think of such a thing.”  “My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want the match—I do not want to injure dear little Henry—but the idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?”  “Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.—Mr. Knightley marry!—No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!”  “Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well know.”  “But the imprudence of such a match!”  “I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.”  “I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax—and is always glad to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing.”  “Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.”  “But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?—He is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart.”  “My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves Jane Fairfax—”  “Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but—”  “Well,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, “perhaps the greatest good he could do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home.”  “If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him?—To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—‘So very kind and obliging!—But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!’ And then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother’s old petticoat. ‘Not that it was such a very old petticoat either—for still it would last a great while—and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong.’”  “For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her—his anxiety about her health—his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express himself so warmly on those points!—Such an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me—this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody—though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in love.”  “Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously.”  “I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of things, occur to him.”  “Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so.”  “There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.”  “You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment—I believe nothing of the pianoforte—and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.”  They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;—and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.  She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.  With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma’s mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley’s marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children—a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;—a very great deduction from her father’s daily comfort—and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!—No—Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.  Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.  “I often feel concern,” said she, “that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose.”  “Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he replied;—“but you must often wish it, I am sure.” And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step.  “This present from the Campbells,” said she—“this pianoforte is very kindly given.”  “Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.—“But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.”  From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual preference—remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane’s second song, her voice grew thick.  “That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud—“you have sung quite enough for one evening—now be quiet.”  Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;—they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more.” And Frank Churchill was heard to say, “I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second.”  Mr. Knightley grew angry.  “That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be.” And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near—“Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her.”  Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing—originating nobody exactly knew where—was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.  While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole—he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.  Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at.  Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother’s account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.  “Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after yours.”     CHAPTER IX   Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles—worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!—And left a name behind her that would not soon die away.  Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue.  The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood—and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half.  She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if Harriet’s praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.  “Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!”  “Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her’s, than a lamp is like sunshine.”  “Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body last night said how well you played.”  “Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax’s is much beyond it.”  “Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution.”  “Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.”  “Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.—There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?”  “Just as they always do—very vulgar.”  “They told me something,” said Harriet rather hesitatingly; “but it is nothing of any consequence.”  Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton.  “They told me—that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday.”  “Oh!”  “He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner.”  “Oh!”  “They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer.”  “She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be.”  “She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry him.”  “Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls in Highbury.”  Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous.  Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.—Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;—Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole’s carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker’s little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.  She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into Highbury;—to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates’s; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford’s; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their eye.—Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday’s engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.  “For my companion tells me,” said she, “that I absolutely promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am going now.”  “And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope,” said Frank Churchill, “to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield—if you are going home.”  Mrs. Weston was disappointed.  “I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased.”  “Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps—I may be equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?”  “I am here on no business of my own,” said Emma; “I am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.”  “Well—if you advise it.—But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an indifferent tone—what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood.”  “I do not believe any such thing,” replied Emma.—“I am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax’s opinion last night.”  “Do come with me,” said Mrs. Weston, “if it be not very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it.”  He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,—trying, with all the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.  “Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Ford.—“Yes—no—yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.—And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly—so it had better go to Hartfield—at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?”  “It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels.”  “No more it is.”  “No trouble in the world, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Ford.  “Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard’s—I do not know—No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?”  “That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford.”  “Aye, that will be much best,” said Harriet, quite satisfied, “I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard’s.”  Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.  “My dear Miss Woodhouse,” said the latter, “I am just run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How do you do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.”  “I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—”  “Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.—Oh! then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see her—and now we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.—‘Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill, ‘Miss Woodhouse’s opinion of the instrument will be worth having.’—But, said I, I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.—‘Oh,’ said he, ‘wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;’—For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother’s spectacles.—The rivet came out, you know, this morning.—So very obliging!—For my mother had no use of her spectacles—could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress’s spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises, always—I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us.—besides dear Jane at present—and she really eats nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats—so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before—I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us.”  Emma would be “very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,” and they did at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,  “How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before. I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—only a little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.”  “What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again when they were all in the street.  Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.  “I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—Oh! my mother’s spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively.’—Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected, he very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could.... ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort excessively.’ I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very obliging as to take some, ‘Oh!’ said he directly, ‘there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.’ That, you know, was so very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice—only we do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times—but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell—some of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees—I believe there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the other day—for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock. ‘I am sure you must be,’ said he, ‘and I will send you another supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.’ So I begged he would not—for really as to ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great many left—it was but half a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been already; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone, she almost quarrelled with me—No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could. However, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, however, I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of _that_ sort his master had; he had brought them all—and now his master had not one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for William, you know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing; but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent away. She could not bear that her master should not be able to have another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it for the world! He would be so very.... I wanted to keep it from Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it before I was aware.”  Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.  “Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase—rather darker and narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith, the step at the turning.”     CHAPTER X   The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.  Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again.  “This is a pleasure,” said he, in rather a low voice, “coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.”  “What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have not you finished it yet? you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.”  “I have not been working uninterruptedly,” he replied, “I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.”  He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again.  At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.  “Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,” said Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, “the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell’s taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?”  Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment.  “It is not fair,” said Emma, in a whisper; “mine was a random guess. Do not distress her.”  He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,  “How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument’s coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?—Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?”  He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,  “Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,” said she, in a voice of forced calmness, “I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture.”  “Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;—your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word—Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present.”  He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.  “If you are very kind,” said he, “it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;—let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds—all the worlds one ever has to give—for another half-hour.”  She played.  “What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!—If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.”  She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said,  “Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?—Cramer.—And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”  Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.  He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.—Emma took the opportunity of whispering,  “You speak too plain. She must understand you.”  “I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning.”  “But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea.”  “I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it.”  “She is not entirely without it, I think.”  “I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment—_his_ favourite.”  Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off.  “Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother’s room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!—Our little room so honoured!”  She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley’s attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment.  “How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here.”  So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,  “How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?—I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.”  And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism.  “So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the carriage,” resumed Miss Bates.  He cut her short with,  “I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?”  “Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston.”  “Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?”  “No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?—Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.”  “Well,” said he, in a deliberating manner, “for five minutes, perhaps.”  “And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!—Quite delightful; so many friends!”  “No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.”  “Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.”  “No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte.”  “Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.—Did you ever see such dancing?—Was not it delightful?—Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it.”  “Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it.”  “Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence—so shocked!—Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!”  “What is the matter now?”  “To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing....”  “Yes,” said Jane, “we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing.”  “Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing to be sure. ‘Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?’ said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?—You seem but just come—so very obliging of you.”  Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls.     CHAPTER XI   It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been known of young people passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body or mind;—but when a beginning is made—when the felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt—it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.  Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again; and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young people in schemes on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing people again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse danced—for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane Fairfax—and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of vanity—to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in to see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking the dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little the largest.  His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole’s should be finished there—that the same party should be collected, and the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr. Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance; and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of space to every couple.  “You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. “And there will be the two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five couple there will be plenty of room.”  But soon it came to be on one side,  “But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do not think there will.”  On another,  “And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it. It will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the thought of the moment.”  Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother’s, and must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation in what possible manner they could be disposed of.  The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. “Might not they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?” It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.  “Oh! no,” said he; “it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!”  Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank Churchill’s part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.  “We were too magnificent,” said he. “We allowed unnecessary room. Ten couple may stand here very well.”  Emma demurred. “It would be a crowd—a sad crowd; and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?”  “Very true,” he gravely replied; “it was very bad.” But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with,  “I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.”  “No, no,” said she, “you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd—and a crowd in a little room!”  “There is no denying it,” he replied. “I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!—Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father—and altogether—I do not know that—I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well.”  Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.  Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.  “Well, Miss Woodhouse,” he almost immediately began, “your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors of my father’s little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:—a thought of my father’s, which waits only your approbation to be acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?”  “The Crown!”  “Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_ to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?—You consent—I hope you consent?”  “It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy—It seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?”  She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable.  “No; he thought it very far from an improvement—a very bad plan—much worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown in his life—did not know the people who kept it by sight.—Oh! no—a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere.”  “I was going to observe, sir,” said Frank Churchill, “that one of the great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of any body’s catching cold—so much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could.”  “Sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, “you are very much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father’s house.”  “From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no occasion to open the windows at all—not once the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.”  “Open the windows!—but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never heard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!—I am sure, neither your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it.”  “Ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have often known it done myself.”  “Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over—but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done.”  “But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—”  “Oh!” interrupted Emma, “there will be plenty of time for talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be so near their own stable.”  “So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.”  “I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole.”  “There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the measles? ‘If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!”  “Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry’s great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort—which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella’s little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry.”  “My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,” said Frank Churchill, “examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you.”  Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect.  “Emma,” said she, “this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined.”  “My dear, you are too particular,” said her husband. “What does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our club-nights.”  The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, “Men never know when things are dirty or not;” and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself, “Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares.”  One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom’s being built, suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper.  Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,  “I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know.”  And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through the passage, was calling out,  “You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs.”  “I wish,” said Mrs. Weston, “one could know which arrangement our guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally pleasing must be our object—if one could but tell what that would be.”  “Yes, very true,” cried Frank, “very true. You want your neighbours’ opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief of them—the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.—And I do not know whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?”  “Well—if you please,” said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, “if you think she will be of any use.”  “You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,” said Emma. “She will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates.”  “But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know.”  Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it his decided approbation.  “Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both.”  “Both sir! Can the old lady?”...  “The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.”  “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect. Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.” And away he ran.  Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it much less than she had supposed before—indeed very trifling; and here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes.—Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to be.  Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must. As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the future. The party did not break up without Emma’s being positively secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, “He has asked her, my dear. That’s right. I knew he would!”     CHAPTER XII   One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill’s stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty—at the risk—in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain.  Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley’s provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply, than,  “Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.—Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins’s week’s account; much rather, I confess.—Pleasure in seeing dancing!—not I, indeed—I never look at it—I do not know who does.—Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different.”  This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated—open hearted—she voluntarily said;—  “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with _very_ great pleasure.”  It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!—she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side—but no love.  Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell—far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.  The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience.  Mrs. Weston added, “that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon.”  This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball—the loss of the young man—and all that the young man might be feeling!—It was too wretched!—Such a delightful evening as it would have been!—Every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!—“I said it would be so,” was the only consolation.  Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home.  Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say,  “Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.”  “But you will come again,” said Emma. “This will not be your only visit to Randalls.”  “Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!—and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring—but I am afraid—they did not stir last spring—I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever.”  “Our poor ball must be quite given up.”  “Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why not seize the pleasure at once?—How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!—You told us it would be so.—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?”  “Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much rather have been merry than wise.”  “If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement.”  Emma looked graciously.  “Such a fortnight as it has been!” he continued; “every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!—every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!”  “As you do us such ample justice now,” said Emma, laughing, “I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.”  He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so.  “And you must be off this very morning?”  “Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him.”  “Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours.”  “Yes—I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then”—  He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.  “In short,” said he, “perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion”—  He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,  “You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then”—  He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,  “It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm”—  He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.—He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.  A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, “It was time to go;” and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.  “I shall hear about you all,” said he; “that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!—she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again.”  A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest “Good-bye,” closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice—short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much.  It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks—indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it.  “I certainly must,” said she. “This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing’s being dull and insipid about the house!— I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not—for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes.”  Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,  “You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!”  It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health.     CHAPTER XIII   Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.  “I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_,” said she.—“In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more.”  Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.  “_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing denotes it—very much in love indeed!—and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.—It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different.—Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man—I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.—His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.—Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.—I shall do very well again after a little while—and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily.”  When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.—The charm of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these words—“I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to her.” This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.  Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the “beautiful little friend,” suggested to her the idea of Harriet’s succeeding her in his affections. Was it impossible?—No.—Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.—For Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.  “I must not dwell upon it,” said she.—“I must not think of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.”  It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill’s disappearance, Mr. Elton’s concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.—His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before “Mr. Elton and his bride” was in every body’s mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet’s mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.  Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively, and said “it was very true—it was just as Miss Woodhouse described—it was not worth while to think about them—and she would not think about them any longer” but no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.  “Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.—Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you—and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it.”  Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. Emma continued,  “I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very important—and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due—or rather what would be kind by me.”  This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably.  “You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life—Want gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—I care for nobody as I do for you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!”  Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before.  “There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she afterwards to herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved—which gives Isabella all her popularity.—I have it not—but I know how to prize and respect it.—Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!—Harriet is worth a hundred such—And for a wife—a sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!”     CHAPTER XIV   Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all.  Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a point of Harriet’s going with her, that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible.  She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being “elegantly dressed, and very pleasing.”  She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance;—ease, but not elegance.— She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma thought at least it would turn out so.  As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no, she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be.  “Well, Miss Woodhouse,” said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; “Well, Miss Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?—Is not she very charming?”  There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.  “Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.”  “I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.”  “Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.”  “I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love.”  “Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A pretty fortune; and she came in his way.”  “I dare say,” returned Harriet, sighing again, “I dare say she was very much attached to him.”  “Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to marry the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she was likely to have.”  “Yes,” said Harriet earnestly, “and well she might, nobody could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as superior as ever;—but being married, you know, it is quite a different thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!—She does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her ‘Augusta.’ How delightful!”  When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see more and judge better. From Harriet’s happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father’s being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an hour of the lady’s conversation to herself, and could composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.  Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself, she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.  The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, “My brother Mr. Suckling’s seat;”—a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine. “Very like Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite struck by the likeness!—That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister’s favourite room.”—Mr. Elton was appealed to.—“Was not it astonishingly like?—She could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove.”  “And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a little sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony.”  Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.  “So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house—the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style.”  Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,  “When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties.”  “Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England.”  “Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry.”  “No, I fancy not,” replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. “I never heard any county but Surry called so.”  Emma was silenced.  “My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest,” continued Mrs. Elton; “and that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King’s-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?”  “No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure.”  “Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol, ‘I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.’ Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse—(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father’s state of health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?—Indeed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.”  “My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now.”  “Ah! that’s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with.”  It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_—of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton’s—probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!—The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!  She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; “but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father.” And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.  “I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady’s character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer.”  “Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior performer!—very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music—passionately fond;—and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is _mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too—knowing what I had been accustomed to—of course he was not wholly without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_ _world_ I could give up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. ‘But,’ said I, ‘to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a musical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.’”  “We cannot suppose,” said Emma, smiling, “that Mr. Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned, in consideration of the motive.”  “No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours. Will not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married women, you know—there is a sad story against them, in general. They are but too apt to give up music.”  “But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can be no danger, surely?”  “I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music—never touches the instrument—though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs. Jeffereys—Clara Partridge, that was—and of the two Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper.”  “But every thing of that kind,” said Emma, “will soon be in so regular a train—”  “Well,” said Mrs. Elton, laughing, “we shall see.”  Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment’s pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject.  “We have been calling at Randalls,” said she, “and found them both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature—quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good—there is something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one directly. She was your governess, I think?”  Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on.  “Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman.”  “Mrs. Weston’s manners,” said Emma, “were always particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest model for any young woman.”  “And who do you think came in while we were there?”  Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance—and how could she possibly guess?  “Knightley!” continued Mrs. Elton; “Knightley himself!—Was not it lucky?—for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.’s, I had a great curiosity. ‘My friend Knightley’ had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man.”  Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could breathe.  “Insufferable woman!” was her immediate exclamation. “Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!—I could not have believed it. Knightley!—never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!—and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!—Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am—thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!”—  All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons’ departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.  “Well, my dear,” he deliberately began, “considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane.”  “I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you.”  “Yes: but a young lady—a bride—I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient.”  “But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them.”  “No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady—and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may.”  “Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies.”  “My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry.”  Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton’s offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her.     CHAPTER XV   Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again,—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton’s consequence only could surpass.  There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates’s good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton’s praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with a good grace of her being “very pleasant and very elegantly dressed.”  In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.—Offended, probably, by the little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was necessarily increasing Emma’s dislike. Her manners, too—and Mr. Elton’s, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet’s cure; but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very much.—It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet’s attachment had been an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.—When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.  Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration—but without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriend her.—Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton’s knight-errantry on the subject.—  “Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.—I quite rave about Jane Fairfax.—A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and ladylike—and with such talents!—I assure you I think she has very extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she is absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth—but, upon my word, I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.—And her situation is so calculated to affect one!—Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour to do something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers must not be suffered to remain unknown.—I dare say you have heard those charming lines of the poet,  ‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,     ‘And waste its fragrance on the desert air.’   We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax.”  “I cannot think there is any danger of it,” was Emma’s calm answer—“and when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax’s situation and understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown.”  “Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed with the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it. I am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I must confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for timidity—and I am sure one does not often meet with it.—But in those who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more than I can express.”  “You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware how you or any of Miss Fairfax’s acquaintance here, any of those who have known her longer than yourself, can shew her any other attention than”—  “My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to act. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_ have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the least inconvenient.—I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_ than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been used to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be—for we do not at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.—However, my resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.—I shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her shortly.—I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of either but what is highly conciliating.—I shall have her very often indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties.”  “Poor Jane Fairfax!”—thought Emma.—“You have not deserved this. You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have merited!—The kindness and protection of Mrs. Elton!—‘Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.’ Heavens! Let me not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!—But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman’s tongue!”  Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any so exclusively addressed to herself—so disgustingly decorated with a “dear Miss Woodhouse.” The change on Mrs. Elton’s side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace—neither forced to be the very particular friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton’s guidance, the very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.  She looked on with some amusement.—Miss Bates’s gratitude for Mrs. Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies—the most amiable, affable, delightful woman—just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma’s only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!—She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.  “She is a riddle, quite a riddle!” said she.—“To chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton’s notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection.”  Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates—it all came from her—Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it!  “She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation,” was Emma’s conclusion. “She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.—She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle.”  Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane.  “We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma—but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to.”  “You are right, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.”  Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied,  “Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton’s invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting.”  “I should not wonder,” said Mrs. Weston, “if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt’s eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton’s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change.”  Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said,  “Another thing must be taken into consideration too—Mrs. Elton does not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other—a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton’s way before—and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness.”  “I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,” said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.  “Yes,” he replied, “any body may know how highly I think of her.”  “And yet,” said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping—it was better, however, to know the worst at once—she hurried on—“And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other.”  Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,  “Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.”  He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on—  “That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her—and I am very sure I shall never ask her.”  Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim,  “You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.”  He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—and in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,  “So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?”  “No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married.”  Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, “No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprize.—I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.” And soon afterwards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”  Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. “Well,” said she, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?”  “Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.”  “In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—what she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton’s acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”  “Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Mr. Knightley—“I do not accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong—and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control; but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always—but with no thought beyond.”  “Well, Mrs. Weston,” said Emma triumphantly when he left them, “what do you say now to Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax?”  “Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the idea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.”     CHAPTER XVI   Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day.  “I see how it is,” said she. “I see what a life I am to lead among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged day!—A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been at a loss.”  No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party—in which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.  Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.  The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of course—and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to make the eighth:—but this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet’s begging to be allowed to decline it. “She would rather not be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home.” It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.— Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.  “This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me, which was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of the same age—and always knowing her—I ought to have been more her friend.—She will never like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater attention than I have done.”  Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all happy.—The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be the very day of this party.—His professional engagements did not allow of his being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear—and here would be a ninth—and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-party.  She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother.  The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma’s vexation.  The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence—wanting only to observe enough for Isabella’s information—but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,  “I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned directly.”  “I went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk before breakfast does me good.”  “Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.”  “No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.”  Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,  “That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.”  There was a little blush, and then this answer,  “I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent about letters.”  “Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could become indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse.”  “You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of friendship.”  “I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied he coolly. “Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.”  “Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day.”  “When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years,” said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.”  It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant “thank you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her—and with all his mildest urbanity, said,  “I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.—Young ladies are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?”  “Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind solicitude about me.”  “My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.—I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.”  The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.  By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.  “My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the post-office in the rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You sad girl, how could you do such a thing?—It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.”  Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.  “Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our authority.”  “My advice,” said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, “I certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.—Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again.”  “Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again,” eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton. “We will not allow her to do such a thing again:”—and nodding significantly—“there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation.”  “You are extremely kind,” said Jane; “but I cannot give up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before.”  “My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled.”  “Excuse me,” said Jane earnestly, “I cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmama’s.”  “Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it is a kindness to employ our men.”  Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.  “The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” said she.—“The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”  “It is certainly very well regulated.”  “So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.”  “The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther explanation,” continued he, smiling, “they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well.”  The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made.  “I have heard it asserted,” said John Knightley, “that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart.”  “Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”  “Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse; “and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston”—with half a sigh and half a smile at her.  “I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, “Now, how am I going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—your correspondent in Yorkshire;—that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.—Now for it.”  Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—“Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I ever saw.”  “I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small—wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”  This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. “No, it by no means wanted strength—it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?” No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.  “If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.—Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?”  “He chose to say he was employed”—  “Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley.”  “Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,” said Mr. Knightley dryly, “writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best.”  Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying—  “Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way.”  Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.  She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;—it was at her tongue’s end—but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.     CHAPTER XVII   When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;—with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton’s side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office—catching cold—fetching letters—and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane—inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton’s meditated activity.  “Here is April come!” said she, “I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here.”  “But I have never fixed on June or any other month—merely looked forward to the summer in general.”  “But have you really heard of nothing?”  “I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet.”  “Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.”  “I not aware!” said Jane, shaking her head; “dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?”  “But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would most wish to see you in.”  “Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,” said Jane. “I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;—afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present.”  “Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible.”  “Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble.”  “But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly.”  “Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something—Offices for the sale—not quite of human flesh—but of human intellect.”  “Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition.”  “I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,” replied Jane; “governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do.”  “Something that would do!” repeated Mrs. Elton. “Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life.”  “You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman’s family is all that I should condition for.”  “I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;—that is—I do not know—if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;—and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.”  “You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a situation together,” said Jane, “they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am.”  “And I am quite serious too, I assure you,” replied Mrs. Elton gaily, “in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us.”  In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,  “Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!—what a dear creature he is;—I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like it?—Selina’s choice—handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed—quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,—show and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well?”  The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize—but there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.—That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to another man’s house, for the sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been in motion since eight o’clock in the morning, and might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!—Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!—Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I could not have believed it even of _him_.”  Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.  “Read it, read it,” said he, “it will give you pleasure; only a few lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.”  The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body.  “Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it?—I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?—Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?—In town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way.”  Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.  Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already.  It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her.     CHAPTER XVIII   “I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,” said Mr. Weston.  Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.  “You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,” he continued—“and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name.”  “Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.”  “You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.— He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son’s hand, presumed to open it—though it was not directed to me—it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter.”  “And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston—(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.—A most dangerous precedent indeed!—I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.—Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!”  “Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short letter—written in a hurry, merely to give us notice—it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill’s account—she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her—so they are all to move southward without loss of time.”  “Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?”  “Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey.”  “Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?—You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me—but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses.”  “The evil of the distance from Enscombe,” said Mr. Weston, “is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank’s last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle’s! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness—but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.—So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that.”  “No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women—and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill’s making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?”  “Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for”—  Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,  “Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea.”  “Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld.”  Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was _not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;—and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on.  “Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect—but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs. Churchill’s illness.”  “If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—To Bath, or to Clifton?” “She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very retired.”  “Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You seem shut out from every thing—in the most complete retirement.—And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot have too many resources—and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of society.”  “Frank was here in February for a fortnight.”  “So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being such a creature in the world.”  This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,  “My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs. Weston’s letters lately have been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton.”  He had done his duty and could return to his son.  “When Frank left us,” continued he, “it was quite uncertain when we might see him again, which makes this day’s news doubly welcome. It has been completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn up—but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully desponding. ‘How could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?’ and so forth—I always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.”  “Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen’s saffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage—we had disappointments about the carriage;—one morning, I remember, he came to me quite in despair.”  She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on.  “You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than Enscombe—in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring—precisely the season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and never too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we intended. Now will be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than having him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the state of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston’s partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him.”  “And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill.—At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall judge of him.—I am no flatterer.”  Mr. Weston was musing.  “I hope,” said he presently, “I have not been severe upon poor Mrs. Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She was the instigator. Frank’s mother would never have been slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife’s: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood. She was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill’d them all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart.”  “Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them directly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established families. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of the Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him—I believe, at least—I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase before his death.”  They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.  After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr. Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers, and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer being silent.  Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with—  “Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and every thing is down at full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than her’s, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them.”  “I rather hope to satisfy you both,” said Emma, “for I shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.”  “And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again.”  “That is very likely. You think so, do not you?”  “I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father—or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately.”  “Increase!”  “Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great difference in your way of life.”  “Difference! No indeed I am not.”  “There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!—When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole’s, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great.”  “Yes,” said his brother quickly, “it is Randalls that does it all.”  “Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home.”  “No,” cried Mr. Knightley, “that need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure.”  “Upon my word,” exclaimed Emma, “you amuse me! I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine—what have they been? Dining once with the Coles—and having a ball talked of, which never took place. I can understand you—(nodding at Mr. John Knightley)—your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one—and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts.”  Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning to talk to him.     VOLUME III     CHAPTER I   A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;—but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before her:—caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.  She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration. That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state.  It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill’s feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect.  He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative indifference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. “He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed—he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word—but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off.” She had no doubt as to his being less in love—but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.  This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to come—but was always prevented. His aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at Randall’s. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill’s removal to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father’s doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.  It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days’ end, her nephew’s letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change.  Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends—for the house was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he could even wish.  Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.  Mr. Weston’s own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young man?—An hour’s ride. He would be always coming over. The difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles—nay, eighteen—it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street—was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer!  One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removal,—the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.  Mr. Weston’s ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness.  Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.     CHAPTER II   No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner, and every thing was safe.  No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room at the Crown was to witness it;—but it would be better than a common meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves, for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man’s company. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.  Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening. They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great surprize. “So unreasonably early!” she was going to exclaim; but she presently found that it was a family of old friends, who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston’s judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company might soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory inspection.  Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher character.—General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he ought to be.—She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though _May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.  Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates’s door to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons.  Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,—impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her.  Mrs. Elton was spoken of. “I think she must be here soon,” said he. “I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she comes.”  A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said,  “I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward.”  Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed.  “But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!” said Mr. Weston, looking about. “We thought you were to bring them.”  The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma longed to know what Frank’s first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.  In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody talked of rain.—“I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,” said Frank to his father: “Miss Bates must not be forgotten:” and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.  “A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.—You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve—so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies—quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better.”  While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.  Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. “I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!—I believe we drive faster than any body.—What a pleasure it is to send one’s carriage for a friend!—I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_.”  Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston’s to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body’s words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was heard,  “So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares—Well!—(as soon as she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!—This is admirable!—Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it.—So well lighted up!—Jane, Jane, look!—did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin’s lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance. ‘Oh! Mrs. Stokes,’ said I—but I had not time for more.” She was now met by Mrs. Weston.—“Very well, I thank you, ma’am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headache!—seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!—excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.—Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.—But two such offers in one day!—Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother, ‘Upon my word, ma’am—.’ Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse’s. I made her take her shawl—for the evenings are not warm—her large new shawl— Mrs. Dixon’s wedding-present.—So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know—Mr. Dixon’s choice. There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:—but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely—and there was a mat to step upon—I shall never forget his extreme politeness.—Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother’s spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?—Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?—Ah! here’s Miss Woodhouse.—Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?—Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!—Such a transformation!—Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma most complacently)—that would be rude—but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look—how do you like Jane’s hair?—You are a judge.—She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her hair!—No hairdresser from London I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare—and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a moment.—How do you do? How do you do?—Very well, I thank you. This is delightful, is not it?—Where’s dear Mr. Richard?—Oh! there he is. Don’t disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?—I saw you the other day as you rode through the town—Mrs. Otway, I protest!—and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.—Such a host of friends!—and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!—How do you do? How do you all do?—Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.—Don’t I hear another carriage?—Who can this be?—very likely the worthy Coles.—Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!—I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me—never take coffee.—A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,—no hurry—Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!”  Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.—He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself—and it was, “How do you like my gown?—How do you like my trimming?—How has Wright done my hair?”—with many other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, “Nobody can think less of dress in general than I do—but upon such an occasion as this, when every body’s eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons—who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour—I would not wish to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except mine.—So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.—We shall see if our styles suit.—A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill. I like him very well.”  At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear more;—and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till another suspension brought Mrs. Elton’s tones again distinctly forward.—Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,  “Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?—I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for tidings of us.”  “Jane!”—repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and displeasure.—“That is easy—but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I suppose.”  “How do you like Mrs. Elton?” said Emma in a whisper.  “Not at all.”  “You are ungrateful.”  “Ungrateful!—What do you mean?” Then changing from a frown to a smile—“No, do not tell me—I do not want to know what you mean.—Where is my father?—When are we to begin dancing?”  Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.—Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude.  “And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?” said Mr. Weston. “She will think Frank ought to ask her.”  Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect approbation of—and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting _him_ to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.—Mr. Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed. Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change. Mr. Weston might be his son’s superior.—In spite of this little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours of unusual festivity before her.—She was more disturbed by Mr. Knightley’s not dancing than by any thing else.—There he was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,—not classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were made up,—so young as he looked!—He could not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placed himself. His tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every body’s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not one among the whole row of young men who could be compared with him.—He moved a few steps nearer, and those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he must have danced, would he but take the trouble.—Whenever she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but in general he was looking grave. She wished he could love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better.—He seemed often observing her. She must not flatter herself that he thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner. They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.  The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in the very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very recordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings usually are. There was one, however, which Emma thought something of.—The two last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;—the only young lady sitting down;—and so equal had been hitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and she was expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.  Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining it. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or speaking to those who were close to her.—Emma saw it. She was not yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little she saw it all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only listening also, but even encouraging him by significant glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say, “Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?” to which his prompt reply was, “Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.”  “Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no dancer.”  “If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,” said he, “I shall have great pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.”  “Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith.” “Miss Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You are extremely obliging—and if I were not an old married man.—But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your command—but my dancing days are over.”  Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.—She looked round for a moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife.  She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her face might be as hot.  In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr. Knightley leading Harriet to the set!—Never had she been more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could catch his eye again.  His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever, flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.  Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though growing very like her;—_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing audibly to her partner,  “Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—Very good-natured, I declare.”  Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and taking up her spoon.  “Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your tippet. Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done—One door nailed up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!—Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody missed me.—I set off without saying a word, just as I told you. Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, and backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were amused, and who were your partners. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall not forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.’ My dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there nobody you would not rather?—I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in her train. Quite the queen of the evening!—Well, here we are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and there is but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and style—Candles everywhere.—I was telling you of your grandmama, Jane,—There was a little disappointment.—The baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread and asparagus—so she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much concerned!—Well, this is brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have supposed any thing!—Such elegance and profusion!—I have seen nothing like it since—Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this side?—Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill—only it seems too good—but just as you please. What you direct in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning.”  Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton’s conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. Elton’s looks also received the due share of censure.  “They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,” said he. “Emma, why is it that they are your enemies?”  He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added, “_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may be.—To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma, that you did want him to marry Harriet.”  “I did,” replied Emma, “and they cannot forgive me.”  He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he only said,  “I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.”  “Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong?”  “Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it.”  “I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of strange blunders!”  “And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl—infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.”  Emma was extremely gratified.—They were interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.  “Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all doing?—Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy! Every body is asleep!”  “I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am wanted.”  “Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Mr. Knightley.  She hesitated a moment, and then replied, “With you, if you will ask me.”  “Will you?” said he, offering his hand.  “Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”  “Brother and sister! no, indeed.”     CHAPTER III   This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.—She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result—the cure of Harriet’s infatuation.—From Harriet’s manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.—Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her!  She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.  Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see together—Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm—actually Harriet!—A moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.—The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;—they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.  A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole.  Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless—and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.  How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.—More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.—She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away—but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.  In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury—and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.  This was the amount of the whole story,—of his communication and of Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.—He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.  Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?—How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!—especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made.  It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;—and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other.  In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naïveté, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed.  Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent—which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.  The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:—in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital.     CHAPTER IV   A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began:  “Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have something that I should like to tell you—a sort of confession to make—and then, you know, it will be over.”  Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet’s manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary.  “It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,” she continued, “to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary—I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me.”  “Yes,” said Emma, “I hope I do.”  “How I could so long a time be fancying myself!...” cried Harriet, warmly. “It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.—I do not care whether I meet him or not—except that of the two I had rather not see him—and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him—but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—I shall never forget her look the other night!—However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.—No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment’s pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought to have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have kept—I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).—However, now I will destroy it all—and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?” said she, with a conscious look.  “Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any thing?”  “No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much.”  She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_ _precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.  “Now,” said Harriet, “you _must_ recollect.”  “No, indeed I do not.”  “Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!—It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat—just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came—I think the very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?—But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it—so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat.”  “My dearest Harriet!” cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, “you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic—I knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down again)—go on—what else?”  “And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally.”  “And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!” said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, “Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this.”  “Here,” resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, “here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did.”  Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,—the part without any lead.  “This was really his,” said Harriet.—“Do not you remember one morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning—I forget exactly the day—but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.”  “I do remember it,” cried Emma; “I perfectly remember it.—Talking about spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton’s seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.—Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here.”  “Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now.”—  “Well, go on.”  “Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say—except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it.”  “My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?”  “Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was—but had not resolution enough to part with them.”  “But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?—I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful.”  “I shall be happier to burn it,” replied Harriet. “It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.”  “And when,” thought Emma, “will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?”  She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet’s.—About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, “Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so”—and thought no more of it, till after a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, “I shall never marry.”  Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment’s debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,  “Never marry!—This is a new resolution.”  “It is one that I shall never change, however.”  After another short hesitation, “I hope it does not proceed from—I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?”  “Mr. Elton indeed!” cried Harriet indignantly.—“Oh! no”—and Emma could just catch the words, “so superior to Mr. Elton!”  She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?—should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?—Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.—She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.—She was decided, and thus spoke—  “Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?”  “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose— Indeed I am not so mad.—But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance—and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially.”  “I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart.”  “Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—when I saw him coming—his noble look—and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!”  “It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.—But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.—He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value.”  Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind—and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation.     CHAPTER V   In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grandmother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton’s activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her will.  Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father’s hints, his mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between them—he thought so at least—symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma’s errors of imagination. _She_ was not present when the suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,  “Myself creating what I saw,”   brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.  He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s most obliging invitation.  As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.  “By the bye,” said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, “what became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?”  Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, “I did not know that he ever had any such plan.”  “Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.”  “Me! impossible!”  “Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?”  “Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.”  “Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—Then I must have dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.”  “What is this?—What is this?” cried Mr. Weston, “about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?”  “No, sir,” replied his son, laughing, “I seem to have had it from nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston’s having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars—but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away—and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry.”  “It is odd though,” observed his father, “that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his carriage! and his wife’s persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?”  Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston’s hint.  “Why, to own the truth,” cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, “if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that he did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don’t you remember grandmama’s telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed I do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.—Extraordinary dream, indeed!”  They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had preceded Miss Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill’s face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of catching her eye—he seemed watching her intently—in vain, however, if it were so—Jane passed between them into the hall, and looked at neither.  There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.  “Miss Woodhouse,” said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind him, which he could reach as he sat, “have your nephews taken away their alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again.”  Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the “poor little boys,” or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.  Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them—and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane’s cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill’s part.  With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said, “Nonsense! for shame!” He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, “I will give it to her—shall I?”—and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. “No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed.”  It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley’s excessive curiosity to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax’s perception seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, “I did not know that proper names were allowed,” pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt.  “Aye, very true, my dear,” cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken a word—“I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night.”  Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl—Frank Churchill was looking also—it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell.  He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must—yes, he certainly must, as a friend—an anxious friend—give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty.  “Pray, Emma,” said he, “may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other.”  Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.  “Oh!” she cried in evident embarrassment, “it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.”  “The joke,” he replied gravely, “seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill.”  He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference—fruitless interference. Emma’s confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.  “My dear Emma,” said he at last, with earnest kindness, “do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?”  “Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.—Why do you make a doubt of it?”  “Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?”  “Never, never!” she cried with a most open eagerness—“Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?”  “I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them—certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public.”  “Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—but it will not do—very sorry to check you in your first essay—but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings rather of a totally different nature—it is impossible exactly to explain:—there is a good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman’s indifference.”  She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse’s tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.     CHAPTER VI   After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings’ coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.  Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at first;—but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.  This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston’s temper.  “I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very comfortably. “But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave her out.”  Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.  It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were inadequate to such an attack.  “Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” she cried.—“And such weather for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”  “You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. “That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast.”  If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh! I should like it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again and again to come—much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.  “You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?”  “I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you.”  “Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.”  “I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations.”  “Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be afraid of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests.”  “No,”—he calmly replied,—“there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is—”  “—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.  “No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself.”  “Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.—“You are a humourist, and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached to them.”  “You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates in my way home.”  “That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;—and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?”  “Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.”  “Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?—Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything—”  “I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”  “Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely clever.”  “I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would spurn any body’s assistance.”  “I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt.”  “You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible.”  “That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.—Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please me.”  Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.  He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two years. “Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all to his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there some very fine morning. He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them—very kind and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—He was not fond of dining out.”  Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment to themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed with.—Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.  In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing exactly right.  Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.—Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser.  It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.  She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.—The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the strawberry-beds.—The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of.—“The best fruit in England—every body’s favourite—always wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather for one’s self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their way—delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no longer—must go and sit in the shade.”  Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—She had some fears of his horse.  Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.—A situation, a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and she positively refused to take her friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge before.—Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescence by the morrow’s post.—How Jane could bear it at all, was astonishing to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.—“Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens—all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.  It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and handsome curve around it.  It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being oppressive.  In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—It was an odd tête-à-tête; but she was glad to see it.—There had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, “These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”—She did not suspect him. It was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.  The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.”—Mrs. Churchill’s state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.  The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr. Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed to need.  Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look of escape.—Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.  “Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say that I am gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to any body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?”  “Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to Highbury alone?”  “Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty minutes.”  “But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be round in five minutes.”  “Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather walk.—And for _me_ to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard others!”  She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, “That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.”  “I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”  Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards some of those who loved her best.  “Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back into the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”  Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming, till very late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him like heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.  “You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.  “As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”  Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill’s state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.  “No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her attention to her father, saying in secret—  “I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet’s sweet easy temper will not mind it.”  He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late. He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over views in Swisserland.  “As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do something to expose myself.”  “That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England.”  “They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-morrow, if I could.”  “You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”  “_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person.”  “You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with the rest of us.”  “No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”  “We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of a change. You will stay, and go with us?”  “No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”  “But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”  “No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”  “Then pray stay at Richmond.”  “But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you all there without me.”  “These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”  The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected. With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That it was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill’s little inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last words to Emma were,  “Well;—if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”  She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.     CHAPTER VII   They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there. Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.  At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without knowing what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.  When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively.” They were laying themselves open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her friend.  “How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”  “Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come.”  “Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”  “It is hotter to-day.”  “Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”  “You are comfortable because you are under command.”  “Your command?—Yes.”  “Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had, somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather than mine.”  “It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are always with me.”  “Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before.”  “Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you first in February.”  “Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)—nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”  “I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively impudence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February.” And then whispering—“Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?”  Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr. Knightley’s answer was the most distinct.  “Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?”  “Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—“Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing.”  “It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which _I_ should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party—_I_ never was in any circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married women—”  Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,  “Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard of—but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body knows what is due to _you_.”  “It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all.”  “Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy. ‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”  Emma could not resist.  “Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be limited as to number—only three at once.”  Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.  “Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.”  “I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?”  “Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his son;—“but we shall be indulgent—especially to any one who leads the way.”  “No, no,” said Emma, “it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston’s shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it.”  “I doubt its being very clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. “It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?”  “What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do not know.”  “Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—Do you understand?”  Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it—and so did Frank and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said,  “This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon.”  “Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton; “_I_ really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!—You know who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body’s service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say—not one of us.  “Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,” added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; “_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”  “With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm.”  Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. “Happy couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”  Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates, spoke now.  “Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.  “You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.  “I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.”  He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone,  “Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her.”  “And make her like myself.”  “By all means, if you can.”  “Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife.”  “She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return, I shall come to you for my wife. Remember.”  Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described? Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished. He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.  “Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”  “If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is—no, that’s somebody else. That’s one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.—Well, I declare—”  They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man’s spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.  While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,  “Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?—Emma, I had not thought it possible.”  Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.  “Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.”  “I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome.”  “Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her.”  “They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many of whom (certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment of her.—This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now.”  While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!  Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.     CHAPTER VIII   The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s thoughts all the evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could not tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways, might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was a morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her father, was felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, “How could you be so unfeeling to your father?—I must, I will tell you truths while I can.” Miss Bates should never again—no, never! If attention, in future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.  She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.  “The ladies were all at home.” She had never rejoiced at the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.  There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates’s voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, “Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.”  Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on.  “I am afraid Jane is not very well,” said she, “but I do not know; they _tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little able—Have you a chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure she will be here presently.”  Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came—“Very happy and obliged”—but Emma’s conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as before—less ease of look and manner. A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.  “Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose you have heard—and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me—(twinkling away a tear or two)—but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning:—such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘you will blind yourself’—for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out—do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own room—I want her to lie down upon the bed. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:’ but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door—I was quite ashamed—but somehow there was a little bustle—for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming. ‘It is only Mrs. Cole,’ said I, ‘depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.’ ‘Well,’ said she, ‘it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.’ But then Patty came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.’—‘I can see nobody,’ said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting—and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must go, my dear,’ said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.’”  Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude—sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as possible. “It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell’s return.”  “So very kind!” replied Miss Bates. “But you are always kind.”  There was no bearing such an “always;” and to break through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of—  “Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?”  “To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most superior—to have the charge of her three little girls—delightful children. Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling’s own family, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—lives only four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.”  “Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes—”  “Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, ‘No;’ for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell’s return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present—and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again—and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind!—but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane’s answer; but she positively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not the least idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge’s situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it.—I did not know a word of it till it was all settled.”  “You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?”  “Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. ‘You _must_ _all_ spend your evening with us,’ said she—‘I positively must have you _all_ come.’”  “Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?”  “No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him off, he did not;—but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged after the morning’s party. Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing—and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it.”  “Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been making up her mind the whole day?”  “I dare say she had.”  “Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends—but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possible—I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.”  “Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman!—A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and as to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness!—It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.—And her salary!—I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane.”  “Ah! madam,” cried Emma, “if other children are at all like what I remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned.”  “You are so noble in your ideas!”  “And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?”  “Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. Within a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma’am, do not let us think about it any more.”  “Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their return?”  “Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was before tea—stay—no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going to cards—and yet it was before tea, because I remember thinking—Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before tea, old John Abdy’s son wanted to speak with him. Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints—I must go and see him to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John’s son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he is very well to do himself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had been telling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.”  Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.  What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge, and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond soon after the return of the party from Box Hill—which messenger, however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace, and driving very steady.  There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it caught Emma’s attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill’s importance in the world, and Jane Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every thing, the other nothing—and she sat musing on the difference of woman’s destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates’s saying,  “Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.—‘You must go,’ said she. ‘You and I must part. You will have no business here.—Let it stay, however,’ said she; ‘give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.’—And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter’s.”  Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.     CHAPTER IX   Emma’s pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father.—Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said,  “I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the ‘love,’ which nobody carries?”  “Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?”  “Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little time.”  Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going—her father began his inquiries.  “Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?—I dare say they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them!”  Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.—It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.— He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified—and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.—He took her hand;—whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say—she might, perhaps, have rather offered it—but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips—when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.—Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.—He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.—The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.—It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.—She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.—He left them immediately afterwards—gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.  Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;—it would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax’s situation with Mr. Knightley.—Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed—but it might have happened at a better time—and to have had longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.—They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry;—it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion.—He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!  In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley’s going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,—interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax’s going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley’s going to London had been an unexpected blow.  “I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long.”  The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.  It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.  “Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed—and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event—a great shock—with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.”—Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, “Ah! poor woman, who would have thought it!” and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion—and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.  Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s death with mutual forbearance.  Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma’s side.  It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet’s opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her kindness—and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. “Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;” and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged—appetite quite gone—and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:—confined always to one room;—he could have wished it otherwise—and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had Mr. Perry’s decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note:  “Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise.”  Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates’s, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not do;—Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service—and every thing that message could do was tried—but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.—Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. “Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body—any body at all—Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied—and Mrs. Cole had made such a point—and Mrs. Perry had said so much—but, except them, Jane would really see nobody.”  Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:—Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful.  Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but “dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take—and, moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.”  When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt—putting every thing together—that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove.     CHAPTER X   One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who “could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her.”—He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,  “Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.”  “Is she unwell?”  “No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can you come?”  “Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?—Is she really not ill?”  “Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”  To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.  “Now,”—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,—“now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.”  “No, no,”—he gravely replied.—“Don’t ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.”  “Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror.—“Good God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is.”  “No, indeed you are mistaken.”—  “Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?—I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”  “Upon my word, Emma.”—  “Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What can be to be _broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?”  “Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley.”  Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.  “I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you—it concerns only myself,—that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say that it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.”  Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern—something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family,—something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps—and poor Frank cut off!—This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity.  “Who is that gentleman on horseback?” said she, as they proceeded—speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view.  “I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time.”  “Has your son been with you, then?”  “Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never mind.”  For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure,  “Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.”  They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—“Well, my dear,” said he, as they entered the room—“I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.”—And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,—“I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea.”  Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,  “What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;—do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be.”  “Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. “Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?”  “So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.”  “You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;” (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) “He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,—to announce an attachment—”  She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet.  “More than an attachment, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Weston; “an engagement—a positive engagement.—What will you say, Emma—what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;—nay, that they have been long engaged!”  Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck, exclaimed,  “Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?”  “You may well be amazed,” returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover— “You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.—It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.—I thought I knew him.”  Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was divided between two ideas—her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation.  “Well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself; “this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her all the winter—before either of them came to Highbury?”  “Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse.”  Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, “I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of.”  Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s countenance was as steady as her words.  “That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay, was attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.”  Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do.  “Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she. “On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was so.— Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”  “I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did—while he really belonged to another?—How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?—How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong indeed.”  “From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine—”  “And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent it.—That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither comprehend nor respect.”  “There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time he could stay—but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”  “Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. Much, much beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!—None of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his life.”  “Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having many, very many, good qualities; and—”  “Good God!” cried Emma, not attending to her.—“Mrs. Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to suffer her even to think of such a measure!”  “He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him—or at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.—Till yesterday, I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do not know how, but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long.”  Emma began to listen better.  “I am to hear from him soon,” continued Mrs. Weston. “He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be understood. Don’t let us be severe, don’t let us be in a hurry to condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and concealment.”  “_His_ sufferings,” replied Emma dryly, “do not appear to have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?”  “Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue influence does not survive the grave!—He gave his consent with very little persuasion.”  “Ah!” thought Emma, “he would have done as much for Harriet.”  “This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s, I fancy, some time—and then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.—He was very much agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear quite a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.—In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of—and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal.”  “And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?”  Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.  “None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in the world but their two selves.”  “Well,” said Emma, “I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage, and treachery?—To come among us with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear.—They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!”  “I am quite easy on that head,” replied Mrs. Weston. “I am very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not have heard.”  “You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady.”  “True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe.”  At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him in; and, while he was coming round, added, “Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of it—and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her credit for—and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may be said in her situation for even that error!”  “Much, indeed!” cried Emma feelingly. “If a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost say, that ‘the world is not their’s, nor the world’s law.’”  She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance, exclaiming,  “A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half your property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.—I congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter.”  A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done.     CHAPTER XI   “Harriet, poor Harriet!”—Those were the words; in them lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much _his_ behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account, that gave the deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken prophetically, when he once said, “Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith.”—She was afraid she had done her nothing but disservice.—It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented them.—She felt that she had been risking her friend’s happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her.—“But, with common sense,” she added, “I am afraid I have had little to do.”  She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.—As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.—Her days of insignificance and evil were over.—She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.—Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet’s mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.—She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston’s parting words. “For the present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.”—Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.  In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!—But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance.  “Well, Miss Woodhouse!” cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room—“is not this the oddest news that ever was?”  “What news do you mean?” replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.  “About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!—you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it.”  “What did Mr. Weston tell you?”—said Emma, still perplexed.  “Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!”  It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak.  “Had you any idea,” cried Harriet, “of his being in love with her?—You, perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every body’s heart; but nobody else—”  “Upon my word,” said Emma, “I begin to doubt my having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not openly—encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?—I never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”  “Me!” cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. “Why should you caution me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.”  “I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,” replied Emma, smiling; “but you do not mean to deny that there was a time—and not very distant either—when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?”  “Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?” turning away distressed.  “Harriet!” cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—“What do you mean?—Good Heaven! what do you mean?—Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—”  She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.  Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma’s.  “I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him—but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);—I should not have dared to give way to—I should not have thought it possible—But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him—”  “Harriet!” cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—“Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of—Mr. Knightley?”  “To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else—and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible.”  “Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.”  “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!”  “My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impression of it is strong on my memory.”  “Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr. Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth.”  “Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortunate—most deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”  “You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now—it _is_ possible—”  She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.  “I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may appear—. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should really—if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.”  Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,  “Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your affection?”  “Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—“I must say that I have.”  Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched—she admitted—she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!  Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits—some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet—(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley—but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.—Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.—Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.  Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.—Emma’s tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet’s, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.—She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet’s detail.—Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit—especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of Harriet.  Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—Latterly she had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!—He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.—Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him—and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.—She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour’s relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.—The first, was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.—But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about farming:—The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his being at Hartfield—though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes—and his having told her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her severe pain.  On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a little reflection, venture the following question. “Might he not?—Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr. Martin’s interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.  “Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it.”  When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.  “I never should have presumed to think of it at first,” said she, “but for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be the rule of mine—and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful.”  The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma’s side, to enable her to say on reply,  “Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does.”  Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father’s footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too much agitated to encounter him. “She could not compose herself— Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;”—with most ready encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another door—and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous burst of Emma’s feelings: “Oh God! that I had never seen her!”  The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.—How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and living under!—The blunders, the blindness of her own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about, she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place, every posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness.  To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father’s claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.  How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?— When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?—She looked back; she compared the two—compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of the latter’s becoming known to her—and as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—oh! had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—She saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart—and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!  This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she reached; and without being long in reaching it.—She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her—her affection for Mr. Knightley.—Every other part of her mind was disgusting.  With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every body’s destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr. Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of Harriet’s;—and even were this not the case, he would never have known Harriet at all but for her folly.  Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to distance every wonder of the kind.—The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an elevation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.—Could it be?—No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.—Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?—Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous—or for chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the human fate?  Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she ought, and where he had told her she ought!—Had she not, with a folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life to which she ought to belong—all would have been safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.  How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!—But Harriet was less humble, had fewer scruples than formerly.—Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation, seemed little felt.—She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton’s being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr. Knightley’s.—Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who but herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible, and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?—If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.     CHAPTER XII   Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been.—Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own—but still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?—When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. _She_ could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to _her_. She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.—How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!—Not too strongly for the offence—but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.—She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his regard for _her_.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.—Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be fully secured.—Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.  It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.—She should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here.—He was expected back every day. The power of observation would be soon given—frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.—It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.—She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To talk would be only to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_ topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of others—she objected only to a tête-à-tête—they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.—Harriet submitted, and approved, and was grateful.  This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma’s thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.  Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and gone through his share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.  A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement’s becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:—but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for “such things,” he observed, “always got about.” Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short—and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax’s recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.  “On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months,” continued Mrs. Weston, “she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. ‘I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’—and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart.”  “Poor girl!” said Emma. “She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?”  “Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. ‘The consequence,’ said she, ‘has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.’ ‘Do not imagine, madam,’ she continued, ‘that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.’”  “Poor girl!” said Emma again. “She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment.”  “Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him.”  “I am afraid,” returned Emma, sighing, “that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy.”  “On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in,” she said, “was that of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been—that had been—hard for him to bear. ‘I did not make the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought to have done, for his temper and spirits—his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.’ She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I could not thank you too much—for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself.”  “If I did not know her to be happy now,” said Emma, seriously, “which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good—I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.”  Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection—but she had too much to urge for Emma’s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, “We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come,” she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.  “Are you well, my Emma?” was Mrs. Weston’s parting question.  “Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.”  Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley’s known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other—what was she?—Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this important matter—which was most probable—still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane’s feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.  The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible.  The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter’s side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of their first forlorn tête-à-tête, on the evening of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.—But her present forebodings she feared would experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled—that might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness.  The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.—Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!—No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their’s!—How was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet’s sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet’s society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma’s wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own work?  When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few seconds—and the only source whence any thing like consolation or composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.     CHAPTER XIII   The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at Hartfield—but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery.—There, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming towards her.—It was the first intimation of his being returned from London. She had been thinking of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a minute they were together. The “How d’ye do’s” were quiet and constrained on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they were all well.—When had he left them?—Only that morning. He must have had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant to walk with her, she found. “He had just looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred being out of doors.”—She thought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.  They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She considered—resolved—and, trying to smile, began—  “You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprize you.”  “Have I?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what nature?”  “Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.”  After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more, he replied,  “If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already.”  “How is it possible?” cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard’s in his way.  “I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.”  Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more composure,  “_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a caution.—I wish I had attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”  For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,  “Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your own excellent sense—your exertions for your father’s sake—I know you will not allow yourself—.” Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and subdued accent, “The feelings of the warmest friendship—Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!”—And in a louder, steadier tone, he concluded with, “He will soon be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_. She deserves a better fate.”  Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,  “You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you right.— I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”  “Emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are you, indeed?”—but checking himself—“No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections were not farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could only be certain that there was a preference—and a preference which I never believed him to deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of man.—And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?—Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature.”  “Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused—“I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—But I never have.”  He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would not. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went on, however.  “I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—An old story, probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some time, indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side. He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself—except that I was _not_ blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him.”  She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,  “I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has been but trifling.—And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no motive for wishing him ill—and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.”  “I have no doubt of their being happy together,” said Emma; “I believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.”  “He is a most fortunate man!” returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. “So early in life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chuses a wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every thing in his favour,—equality of situation—I mean, as far as regards society, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in every point but one—and that one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.—A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard, must, I think, be the happiest of mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior.—His aunt is in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only to speak.—His friends are eager to promote his happiness.—He had used every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.—He is a fortunate man indeed!”  “You speak as if you envied him.”  “And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.”  Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally different—the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,  “You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but _I_ cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment.”  “Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried. “Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”  “Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed.  Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would listen. She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had reached the house.  “You are going in, I suppose?” said he.  “No,”—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he still spoke—“I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone.” And, after proceeding a few steps, she added—“I stopped you ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think.”  “As a friend!”—repeated Mr. Knightley.—“Emma, that I fear is a word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?—I have gone too far already for concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer—Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?”  He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.  “My dearest Emma,” said he, “for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to be said.”—She could really say nothing.—“You are silent,” he cried, with great animation; “absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.”  Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.  “I cannot make speeches, Emma:” he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.—“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it.—Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.—But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you understand my feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.”  While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been able—and yet without losing a word—to catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all received as discouragement from herself.—And not only was there time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant happiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet’s secret had not escaped her, and to resolve that it need not, and should not.—It was all the service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two—or even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.—She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself. He _had_ despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;—she had begun by refusing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.  Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.—Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.  He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.—The rest had been the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself;—but it had been no present hope—he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more enchanting.—The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already his!—Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name.  _Her_ change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—On his side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided him on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions.—He had gone to learn to be indifferent.—But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.—He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—till this very morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.  He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill was a villain.— He heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s character was not desperate.—She was his own Emma, by hand and word, when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.     CHAPTER XIV   What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from what she had brought out!—she had then been only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the flutter should have passed away.  They sat down to tea—the same party round the same table—how often it had been collected!—and how often had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun!—But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive daughter.  Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.—Could he have seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return.  As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and subdued—and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some alloy. Her father—and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father, it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father.—She even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.—How to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;—how to spare her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement; how to appear least her enemy?—On these subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great—and her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded it.—She could only resolve at last, that she would still avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed just now for a time from Highbury, and—indulging in one scheme more—nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to Brunswick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.—She did not think it in Harriet’s nature to escape being benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.—At any rate, it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom every thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the evil day, when they must all be together again.  She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the evening before.  He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls—a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.—She was now in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself—and as for understanding any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.—It must be waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;—a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.  “I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.—I think we shall never materially disagree about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.—We are quite well.—This letter has been the cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling lately.—I did not quite like your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will never own being affected by weather, I think every body feels a north-east wind.—I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.  “Yours ever, “A. W.”   [_To Mrs. Weston_.]   Windsor—July.   MY DEAR MADAM,   “If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and indulgence.—You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.—But I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage rises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble. I have already met with such success in two applications for pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours, and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.—You must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to _think_ it a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.—Had she refused, I should have gone mad.—But you will be ready to say, what was your hope in doing this?—What did you look forward to?—To any thing, every thing—to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’s son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.—See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls;—and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as _you_ were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father’s compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.—A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.—My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.—In order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.—I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object—but I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.—Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish.—She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each other. From our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and were felt to be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say;—when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was within a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some degree.—She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.—I hope this history of my conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as myself.—Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight, you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion. If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account.—Of the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F—, who would never have allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.—The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself.—No description can describe her. She must tell you herself what she is—yet not by word, for never was there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own merit.—Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard from her.—She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks. I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again!—But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to encroach.—I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard all that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures, but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinement.—But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered into with that woman—Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.—I have been walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of my letter what it ought to be.—It is, in fact, a most mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable. _She_ disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.—My plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.—She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known.—We quarrelled.— Do you remember the morning spent at Donwell?—_There_ every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made every previous caution useless?—Had we been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected.—I was mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted her affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me.—In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with her as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first advances.—I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it which that woman has known.—‘Jane,’ indeed!—You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.—She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again.—_She_ _felt_ _the_ _engagement_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _source_ _of_ _repentance_ _and_ _misery_ _to_ _each_: _she_ _dissolved_ _it_.—This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.—I was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy, and—may I add?—too cheerful in my views to be captious.—We removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all returned!—and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at—: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten me.—Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.—What was to be done?—One thing only.—I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.—I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.—I felt that it would be of a different sort.—Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?—No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.—I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.—I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.—If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.—Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.—In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,  Your obliged and affectionate Son,  F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.     CHAPTER XV   This letter must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.  She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct.  “I shall be very glad to look it over,” said he; “but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night.”  But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him.  “I would rather be talking to you,” he replied; “but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.”  He began—stopping, however, almost directly to say, “Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference.”  He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, “Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man’s style must not be the rule of another’s. We will not be severe.”  “It will be natural for me,” he added shortly afterwards, “to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it—”  “Not at all. I should wish it.”  Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.  “He trifles here,” said he, “as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.—Bad.—He ought not to have formed the engagement.—‘His father’s disposition:’—he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston’s sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.—Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here.”  “And I have not forgotten,” said Emma, “how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely—but you were perfectly right.”  “I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—but yet, I think—had _you_ not been in the case—I should still have distrusted him.”  When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud—all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus—  “Very bad—though it might have been worse.—Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.—No judge of his own manners by you.—Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.—Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!—his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.—Mystery; Finesse—how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?”  Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet’s account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.  “You had better go on,” said she.  He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, “the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!—I cannot comprehend a man’s wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument’s coming if she could.”  After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill’s confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing.  “I perfectly agree with you, sir,”—was then his remark. “You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.” And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax’s sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, “This is very bad.—He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.—She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment.”  Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain—no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.  “There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons,” was his next observation.—“His feelings are natural.—What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!—She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each—she dissolved it.—What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he must be a most extraordinary—”  “Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he suffers.”  “I hope he does,” replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. “‘Smallridge!’—What does this mean? What is all this?”  “She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge’s children—a dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?”  “Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read—not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!”  “I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him.”  “Well, there _is_ feeling here.—He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her. ‘Dearer, much dearer than ever.’ I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.—He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I deserve.’ Come, he knows himself there. ‘Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.’—Those were Miss Woodhouse’s words, were they?— And a fine ending—and there is the letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?”  “You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you.”  “Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another person’s interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject.”  The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father. Emma’s answer was ready at the first word. “While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her. She could never quit him.” Part only of this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father’s comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father’s happiness—in other words, his life—required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.  Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself.  “Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried Emma. “I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine.”  She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme.  It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.  This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield—the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!—Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy!  She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment.  In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;—not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.     CHAPTER XVI   It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!  Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.—It might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.  She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation; and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting to invention.—There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to her—and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was quite eager to have Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled on her sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very persuadable.—Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick Square.  Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; now she could talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the feelings which she had led astray herself.  The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in London, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sensations; but she could not think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.  She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication before her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make—the confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it at present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this period among those she loved—and the evil should not act on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.  She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—She ought to go—and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present situations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a _secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.  She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.—The fear of being still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—She heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so happily intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her were felt sufficient.—Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.— She came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,  “This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to express—I hope you will believe—Excuse me for being so entirely without words.”  Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the sitting-room had not checked her, and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.  Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm.  She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady’s replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods,  “We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet creature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word more. Let us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You remember those lines—I forget the poem at this moment:  “For when a lady’s in the case, “You know all other things give place.”   Now I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read——mum! a word to the wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t I? But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—_My_ representation, you see, has quite appeased her.”  And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates’s knitting, she added, in a half whisper,  “I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.—Oh! no; cautious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely well.”  Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every possible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,  “Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest credit?—(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!—Oh! if you had seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!”—And when Mrs. Bates was saying something to Emma, whispered farther, “We do not say a word of any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit.”  “I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,” she shortly afterwards began, “since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not seem—that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine weather lasts?—It must be the same party, you know, quite the same party, not _one_ exception.”  Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.  “Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.—It is impossible to say—Yes, indeed, I quite understand—dearest Jane’s prospects—that is, I do not mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.—How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.—Such a happy little circle as you find us here.—Yes, indeed.—Charming young man!—that is—so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!—such attention to Jane!”—And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now graciously overcome.—After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,  “Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you.”  “What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?—That will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton’s time is so engaged.”  “Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged from morning to night.—There is no end of people’s coming to him, on some pretence or other.—The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without him.—‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say, ‘rather you than I.—I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half so many applicants.’—Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree.—I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight.—However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all.” And putting up her hand to screen her words from Emma—“A congratulatory visit, you know.—Oh! yes, quite indispensable.”  Miss Bates looked about her, so happily—!  “He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep consultation.—Mr. E. is Knightley’s right hand.”  Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, “Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have a hot walk.”  “Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who lead.—I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way.”  “Have not you mistaken the day?” said Emma. “I am almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.—Mr. Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.”  “Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,” was the abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton’s side.—“I do believe,” she continued, “this is the most troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.”  “Your parish there was small,” said Jane.  “Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject talked of.”  “But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children.”  “Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a thinking brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that _some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.—But hush!—not a word, if you please.”  It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.  Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity.  “Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!—But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared.—Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience—for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?”  Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing.  “When I got to Donwell,” said he, “Knightley could not be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one.”  “Donwell!” cried his wife.—“My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown.”  “No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broiling morning!—I went over the fields too—(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.—Very extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.—Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you explain it?”  Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.  “I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) “I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;—and his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it.”  “I met William Larkins,” continued Mr. Elton, “as I got near the house, and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not believe him.—William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose.”  Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.  She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,  “It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent.”  “Oh!” cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure—“there would have been no danger. The danger would have been of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend—”  “Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly, and taking her hand. “You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even—”  “You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.—So cold and artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of deceit!—I know that I must have disgusted you.”  “Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side. Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you have pleasant accounts from Windsor?”  “Very.”  “And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just as I begin to know you.”  “Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”  “Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied Emma, smiling—“but, excuse me, it must be thought of.”  The smile was returned as Jane answered,  “You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more to wait for.”  “Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be assured of.—Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and open!—Good-bye, good-bye.”     CHAPTER XVII   Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella’s sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older—and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston—no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.  “She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,” she continued—“like La Baronne d’Almane on La Comtesse d’Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan.”  “That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even more than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will be the only difference.”  “Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become of her?”  “Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them?”  Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the assistance of all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me without it.”  “Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:—Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?—and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least.”  “I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma. “I was very often influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen.”  “How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor’s leave’—something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one.”  “What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance.”  “‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr. Knightley;’ and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.—And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what.”  “I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again.”  “And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?”  “Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr. Knightley.’ I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.—But I will promise,” she added presently, laughing and blushing—“I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;—in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.”  Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.—She could not enter on it.—Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.  Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.—Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma’s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back.  “John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. Knightley. “Here is his answer, if you like to see it.”  It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned.  “John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued Mr. Knightley, “but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”  “He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she had read the letter. “I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him.”  “My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—”  “He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,” interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject.”  “Emma, my dear Emma—”  “Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.—His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther.”  “Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did you notice it?—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind.”  “If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that.”  “Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.—But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems always tired now.’”  The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons’ reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.—But how to break it to her father at last!—She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley’s absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.—She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.—With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained—which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all—she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person’s company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.  Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.—But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—He would not deny that he did, she was sure.—Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?—Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?—Would not he like to have him always on the spot?—Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;—but they did see him every day as it was.—Why could not they go on as they had done?  Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.—To Emma’s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.—They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one—well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other—in another year or two, perhaps—it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place.  Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.—She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.—How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!—The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband’s plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment—less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself—but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying—“Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way.” But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.  Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps.  The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.—He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.  “It is to be a secret, I conclude,” said he. “These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.—I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.”  He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?—he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.  In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.—There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped “the young lady’s pride would now be contented;” and supposed “she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;” and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, “Rather he than I!”—But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.—“Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—sad business for him.”—She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.—How could he be so taken in?—Did not think him at all in love—not in the least.—Poor Knightley!—There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.—Poor fellow!—No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.—Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.—Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter.     CHAPTER XVIII   Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with,  “I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.”  “Good or bad?” said she, quickly, looking up in his face.  “I do not know which it ought to be called.”  “Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile.”  “I am afraid,” said he, composing his features, “I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it.”  “Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.”  “There is one subject,” he replied, “I hope but one, on which we do not think alike.” He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. “Does nothing occur to you?—Do not you recollect?—Harriet Smith.”  Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what.  “Have you heard from her yourself this morning?” cried he. “You have, I believe, and know the whole.”  “No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.”  “You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin.”  Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared—and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, “No, this is impossible!” but her lips were closed.  “It is so, indeed,” continued Mr. Knightley; “I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.”  She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.  “You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject.”  “You mistake me, you quite mistake me,” she replied, exerting herself. “It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!—You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean, that he intends it.”  “I mean that he has done it,” answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, “and been accepted.”  “Good God!” she cried.—“Well!”—Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, “Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?—Let me know it all. I never was more surprized—but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.—How—how has it been possible?”  “It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.—He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley’s. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day—which he did—and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.—She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday’s coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.—She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman’s language can make interesting.—In our communications we deal only in the great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy.”  He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,  “Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil—but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.—As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.—You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.”  He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly—she did—cheerfully answering,  “You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!—for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before.”  “You ought to know your friend best,” replied Mr. Knightley; “but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her.”  Emma could not help laughing as she answered, “Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.—But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time—but can she already?—Did not you misunderstand him?—You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills—and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?—It was not Harriet’s hand that he was certain of—it was the dimensions of some famous ox.”  The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma’s feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet’s side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, “No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,” that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise.  “Do you dare say this?” cried Mr. Knightley. “Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?—What do you deserve?”  “Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?”  “I am quite sure,” he replied, speaking very distinctly, “that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.”  “I am perfectly satisfied,” replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, “and most sincerely wish them happy.”  “You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before.”  “I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.”  “And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin’s cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.—Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for.”  “Me!” cried Emma, shaking her head.—“Ah! poor Harriet!”  She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved.  Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational.  Her father’s business was to announce James’s being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.  The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet’s welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.—What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future.  Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!  Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.  High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty.  In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed.  They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:—but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window.  “It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.—They are coming in, I hope.”  In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him—but there was a degree of confusion—a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation—or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say,  “I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said.”  “No, indeed,” cried Emma, most happy to begin, “not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you—and to give you joy in person.”  He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.  “Is not she looking well?” said he, turning his eyes towards Jane. “Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her.”  But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.—Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.  “I can never think of it,” she cried, “without extreme shame.”  “The shame,” he answered, “is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none.”  “I never had the smallest, I assure you.”  “That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—and I wish I had—it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.—It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing.”  “It is not now worth a regret,” said Emma.  “I have some hope,” resumed he, “of my uncle’s being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a distance from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?”  Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried,  “Ah! by the bye,” then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment—“I hope Mr. Knightley is well?” He paused.—She coloured and laughed.—“I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.—I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise.”  Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were,  “Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such delicacy!—and yet without being actually fair.—One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair—a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.—Just colour enough for beauty.”  “I have always admired her complexion,” replied Emma, archly; “but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so pale?—When we first began to talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?”  “Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I dare—”  But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying,  “I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.—I am sure you had.—I am sure it was a consolation to you.”  “Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most miserable wretch!”  “Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us all in.—Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation. I think there is a little likeness between us.”  He bowed.  “If not in our dispositions,” she presently added, with a look of true sensibility, “there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own.”  “True, true,” he answered, warmly. “No, not true on your side. You can have no superior, but most true on mine.—She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.—You will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle means to give her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new set. I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful in her dark hair?”  “Very beautiful, indeed,” replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that he gratefully burst out,  “How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent looks!—I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come.”  The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the infant’s appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes, however, the child had been perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done it. “She should always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had seen it.”  Frank Churchill caught the name.  “Perry!” said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss Fairfax’s eye. “My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr. Perry?—Has he been here this morning?—And how does he travel now?—Has he set up his carriage?”  Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the laugh, it was evident from Jane’s countenance that she too was really hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.  “Such an extraordinary dream of mine!” he cried. “I can never think of it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye—that the whole blunder is spread before her—that she can attend to nothing else, though pretending to listen to the others?”  Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice,  “How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!—They _will_ sometimes obtrude—but how you can court them!”  He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but Emma’s feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more sensible of Mr. Knightley’s high superiority of character. The happiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.     CHAPTER XIX   If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied—unaccountable as it was!—that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of happiness.  Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend’s approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.—Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley’s, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?—The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.—Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma.  The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.—Harriet’s parentage became known. She proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always wished for concealment.—Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!—It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or for the Churchills—or even for Mr. Elton!—The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.  No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man;—or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.  Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.—The intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner.  Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the first to be married.  Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.  The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had determined that their marriage ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.—John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event.  When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless.—A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.—He began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it—a very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter’s courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated—she could not proceed.  In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse’s mind, or any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another way.—Mrs. Weston’s poultry-house was robbed one night of all her turkeys—evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered.—Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr. Woodhouse’s fears.—He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law’s protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.—But Mr. John Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November.  The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.  The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.—“Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!—Selina would stare when she heard of it.”—But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.  FINIS     *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMMA ***  Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.  Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.  START: FULL LICENSE  THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK  To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.  Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works  1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.  1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.  1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.  1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.  1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:  1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and   most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no   restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it   under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this   eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the   United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where   you are located before using this eBook.  1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.  1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.  1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.  1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg-tm License.  1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.  1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.  1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided that:  * You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from   the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method   you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed   to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has   agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project   Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid   within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are   legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty   payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project   Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in   Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg   Literary Archive Foundation."  * You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies   you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he   does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm   License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all   copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue   all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm   works.  * You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of   any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the   electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of   receipt of the work.  * You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free   distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.  1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.  1.F.  1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.  1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.  1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.  1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you \'AS-IS\', WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.  1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.  1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.  Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm  Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.  Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm\'s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org  Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation\'s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state\'s laws.  The Foundation\'s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation\'s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact  Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation  Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.  The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate  While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.  International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.  Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate  Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works  Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.  Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.  Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org  This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. '

' start of the project gutenberg ebook emma  emma by jane austen contents volume i i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x xi xii xiii xiv xv xvi xvii xviii volume ii i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x xi xii xiii xiv xv xvi xvii xviii volume iii i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x xi xii xiii xiv xv xvi xvii xviii xix volume i i emma woodhouse handsome clever and rich with a comfortable home and happy disposition seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence and had lived nearly twentyone years in the world with very little to distress or vex her she was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate indulgent father and had in consequence of her sisters marriage been mistress of his house from a very early period her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as governess who had fallen little short of a mother in affection sixteen years had miss taylor been in mr woodhouses family less as a governess than a friend very fond of both daughters but particularly of emma between them it was more the intimacy of sisters even before miss taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint and the shadow of authority being now long passed away they had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached and emma doing just what she liked highly esteeming miss taylors judgment but directed chiefly by her own the real evils indeed of emmas situation were the power of having rather too much her own way and a disposition to think a little too well of herself these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments the danger however was at present so unperceived that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her sorrow camea gentle sorrowbut not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousnessmiss taylor married it was miss taylors loss which first brought grief it was on the weddingday of this beloved friend that emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance the wedding over and the bridepeople gone her father and herself were left to dine together with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening her father composed himself to sleep after dinner as usual and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost the event had every promise of happiness for her friend mr weston was a man of unexceptionable character easy fortune suitable age and pleasant manners and there was some satisfaction in considering with what selfdenying generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match but it was a black mornings work for her the want of miss taylor would be felt every hour of every day she recalled her past kindnessthe kindness the affection of sixteen yearshow she had taught and how she had played with her from five years oldhow she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in healthand how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood a large debt of gratitude was owing here but the intercourse of the last seven years the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed isabellas marriage on their being left to each other was yet a dearer tenderer recollection she had been a friend and companion such as few possessed intelligent wellinformed useful gentle knowing all the ways of the family interested in all its concerns and peculiarly interested in herself in every pleasure every scheme of hersone to whom she could speak every thought as it arose and who had such an affection for her as could never find fault how was she to bear the changeit was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them but emma was aware that great must be the difference between a mrs weston only half a mile from them and a miss taylor in the house and with all her advantages natural and domestic she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude she dearly loved her father but he was no companion for her he could not meet her in conversation rational or playful the evil of the actual disparity in their ages and mr woodhouse had not married early was much increased by his constitution and habits for having been a valetudinarian all his life without activity of mind or body he was a much older man in ways than in years and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper his talents could not have recommended him at any time her sister though comparatively but little removed by matrimony being settled in london only sixteen miles off was much beyond her daily reach and many a long october and november evening must be struggled through at hartfield before christmas brought the next visit from isabella and her husband and their little children to fill the house and give her pleasant society again highbury the large and populous village almost amounting to a town to which hartfield in spite of its separate lawn and shrubberies and name did really belong afforded her no equals the woodhouses were first in consequence there all looked up to them she had many acquaintance in the place for her father was universally civil but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of miss taylor for even half a day it was a melancholy change and emma could not but sigh over it and wish for impossible things till her father awoke and made it necessary to be cheerful his spirits required support he was a nervous man easily depressed fond of every body that he was used to and hating to part with them hating change of every kind matrimony as the origin of change was always disagreeable and he was by no means yet reconciled to his own daughters marrying nor could ever speak of her but with compassion though it had been entirely a match of affection when he was now obliged to part with miss taylor too and from his habits of gentle selfishness and of being never able to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself he was very much disposed to think miss taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for them and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest of her life at hartfield emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could to keep him from such thoughts but when tea came it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner poor miss taylori wish she were here again what a pity it is that mr weston ever thought of her i cannot agree with you papa you know i cannot mr weston is such a goodhumoured pleasant excellent man that he thoroughly deserves a good wifeand you would not have had miss taylor live with us for ever and bear all my odd humours when she might have a house of her own a house of her ownbut where is the advantage of a house of her own this is three times as largeand you have never any odd humours my dear how often we shall be going to see them and they coming to see uswe shall be always meeting we must begin we must go and pay wedding visit very soon my dear how am i to get so far randalls is such a distance i could not walk half so far no papa nobody thought of your walking we must go in the carriage to be sure the carriage but james will not like to put the horses to for such a little wayand where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our visit they are to be put into mr westons stable papa you know we have settled all that already we talked it all over with mr weston last night and as for james you may be very sure he will always like going to randalls because of his daughters being housemaid there i only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else that was your doing papa you got hannah that good place nobody thought of hannah till you mentioned herjames is so obliged to you i am very glad i did think of her it was very lucky for i would not have had poor james think himself slighted upon any account and i am sure she will make a very good servant she is a civil prettyspoken girl i have a great opinion of her whenever i see her she always curtseys and asks me how i do in a very pretty manner and when you have had her here to do needlework i observe she always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it i am sure she will be an excellent servant and it will be a great comfort to poor miss taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see whenever james goes over to see his daughter you know she will be hearing of us he will be able to tell her how we all are emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas and hoped by the help of backgammon to get her father tolerably through the evening and be attacked by no regrets but her own the backgammontable was placed but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary mr knightley a sensible man about seven or eightandthirty was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family but particularly connected with it as the elder brother of isabellas husband he lived about a mile from highbury was a frequent visitor and always welcome and at this time more welcome than usual as coming directly from their mutual connexions in london he had returned to a late dinner after some days absence and now walked up to hartfield to say that all were well in brunswick square it was a happy circumstance and animated mr woodhouse for some time mr knightley had a cheerful manner which always did him good and his many inquiries after poor isabella and her children were answered most satisfactorily when this was over mr woodhouse gratefully observed it is very kind of you mr knightley to come out at this late hour to call upon us i am afraid you must have had a shocking walk not at all sir it is a beautiful moonlight night and so mild that i must draw back from your great fire but you must have found it very damp and dirty i wish you may not catch cold dirty sir look at my shoes not a speck on them well that is quite surprising for we have had a vast deal of rain here it rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast i wanted them to put off the wedding by the byei have not wished you joy being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling i have been in no hurry with my congratulations but i hope it all went off tolerably well how did you all behave who cried most ah poor miss taylor tis a sad business poor mr and miss woodhouse if you please but i cannot possibly say poor miss taylor i have a great regard for you and emma but when it comes to the question of dependence or independenceat any rate it must be better to have only one to please than two especially when one of those two is such a fanciful troublesome creature said emma playfully that is what you have in your head i knowand what you would certainly say if my father were not by i believe it is very true my dear indeed said mr woodhouse with a sigh i am afraid i am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome my dearest papa you do not think i could mean you or suppose mr knightley to mean you what a horrible idea oh no i meant only myself mr knightley loves to find fault with me you knowin a jokeit is all a joke we always say what we like to one another mr knightley in fact was one of the few people who could see faults in emma woodhouse and the only one who ever told her of them and though this was not particularly agreeable to emma herself she knew it would be so much less so to her father that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body emma knows i never flatter her said mr knightley but i meant no reflection on any body miss taylor has been used to have two persons to please she will now have but one the chances are that she must be a gainer well said emma willing to let it passyou want to hear about the wedding and i shall be happy to tell you for we all behaved charmingly every body was punctual every body in their best looks not a tear and hardly a long face to be seen oh no we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart and were sure of meeting every day dear emma bears every thing so well said her father but mr knightley she is really very sorry to lose poor miss taylor and i am sure she will miss her more than she thinks for emma turned away her head divided between tears and smiles it is impossible that emma should not miss such a companion said mr knightley we should not like her so well as we do sir if we could suppose it but she knows how much the marriage is to miss taylors advantage she knows how very acceptable it must be at miss taylors time of life to be settled in a home of her own and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure every friend of miss taylor must be glad to have her so happily married and you have forgotten one matter of joy to me said emma and a very considerable onethat i made the match myself i made the match you know four years ago and to have it take place and be proved in the right when so many people said mr weston would never marry again may comfort me for any thing mr knightley shook his head at her her father fondly replied ah my dear i wish you would not make matches and foretell things for whatever you say always comes to pass pray do not make any more matches i promise you to make none for myself papa but i must indeed for other people it is the greatest amusement in the world and after such success you knowevery body said that mr weston would never marry again oh dear no mr weston who had been a widower so long and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here always acceptable wherever he went always cheerfulmr weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it oh no mr weston certainly would never marry again some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed and others of the son and the uncle not letting him all manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject but i believed none of it ever since the dayabout four years agothat miss taylor and i met with him in broadway lane when because it began to drizzle he darted away with so much gallantry and borrowed two umbrellas for us from farmer mitchells i made up my mind on the subject i planned the match from that hour and when such success has blessed me in this instance dear papa you cannot think that i shall leave off matchmaking i do not understand what you mean by success said mr knightley success supposes endeavour your time has been properly and delicately spent if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage a worthy employment for a young ladys mind but if which i rather imagine your making the match as you call it means only your planning it your saying to yourself one idle day i think it would be a very good thing for miss taylor if mr weston were to marry her and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards why do you talk of success where is your merit what are you proud of you made a lucky guess and that is all that can be said and have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guessi pity youi thought you clevererfor depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck there is always some talent in it and as to my poor word success which you quarrel with i do not know that i am so entirely without any claim to it you have drawn two pretty pictures but i think there may be a thirda something between the donothing and the doall if i had not promoted mr westons visits here and given many little encouragements and smoothed many little matters it might not have come to any thing after all i think you must know hartfield enough to comprehend that a straightforward openhearted man like weston and a rational unaffected woman like miss taylor may be safely left to manage their own concerns you are more likely to have done harm to yourself than good to them by interference emma never thinks of herself if she can do good to others rejoined mr woodhouse understanding but in part but my dear pray do not make any more matches they are silly things and break up ones family circle grievously only one more papa only for mr elton poor mr elton you like mr elton papai must look about for a wife for him there is nobody in highbury who deserves himand he has been here a whole year and has fitted up his house so comfortably that it would be a shame to have him single any longerand i thought when he was joining their hands today he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office done for him i think very well of mr elton and this is the only way i have of doing him a service mr elton is a very pretty young man to be sure and a very good young man and i have a great regard for him but if you want to shew him any attention my dear ask him to come and dine with us some day that will be a much better thing i dare say mr knightley will be so kind as to meet him with a great deal of pleasure sir at any time said mr knightley laughing and i agree with you entirely that it will be a much better thing invite him to dinner emma and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken but leave him to chuse his own wife depend upon it a man of six or sevenandtwenty can take care of himself ii mr weston was a native of highbury and born of a respectable family which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property he had received a good education but on succeeding early in life to a small independence had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged and had satisfied an active cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county then embodied captain weston was a general favourite and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to miss churchill of a great yorkshire family and miss churchill fell in love with him nobody was surprized except her brother and his wife who had never seen him and who were full of pride and importance which the connexion would offend miss churchill however being of age and with the full command of her fortunethough her fortune bore no proportion to the familyestatewas not to be dissuaded from the marriage and it took place to the infinite mortification of mr and mrs churchill who threw her off with due decorum it was an unsuitable connexion and did not produce much happiness mrs weston ought to have found more in it for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him but though she had one sort of spirit she had not the best she had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brothers unreasonable anger nor from missing the luxuries of her former home they lived beyond their income but still it was nothing in comparison of enscombe she did not cease to love her husband but she wanted at once to be the wife of captain weston and miss churchill of enscombe captain weston who had been considered especially by the churchills as making such an amazing match was proved to have much the worst of the bargain for when his wife died after a three years marriage he was rather a poorer man than at first and with a child to maintain from the expense of the child however he was soon relieved the boy had with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mothers been the means of a sort of reconciliation and mr and mrs churchill having no children of their own nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for offered to take the whole charge of the little frank soon after her decease some scruples and some reluctance the widowerfather may be supposed to have felt but as they were overcome by other considerations the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the churchills and he had only his own comfort to seek and his own situation to improve as he could a complete change of life became desirable he quitted the militia and engaged in trade having brothers already established in a good way in london which afforded him a favourable opening it was a concern which brought just employment enough he had still a small house in highbury where most of his leisure days were spent and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away he had by that time realised an easy competenceenough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining highbury which he had always longed forenough to marry a woman as portionless even as miss taylor and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition it was now some time since miss taylor had begun to influence his schemes but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase randalls and the sale of randalls was long looked forward to but he had gone steadily on with these objects in view till they were accomplished he had made his fortune bought his house and obtained his wife and was beginning a new period of existence with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through he had never been an unhappy man his own temper had secured him from that even in his first marriage but his second must shew him how delightful a welljudging and truly amiable woman could be and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen to excite gratitude than to feel it he had only himself to please in his choice his fortune was his own for as to frank it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncles heir it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of churchill on coming of age it was most unlikely therefore that he should ever want his fathers assistance his father had no apprehension of it the aunt was a capricious woman and governed her husband entirely but it was not in mr westons nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear and as he believed so deservedly dear he saw his son every year in london and was proud of him and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made highbury feel a sort of pride in him too he was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern mr frank churchill was one of the boasts of highbury and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life his coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved now upon his fathers marriage it was very generally proposed as a most proper attention that the visit should take place there was not a dissentient voice on the subject either when mrs perry drank tea with mrs and miss bates or when mrs and miss bates returned the visit now was the time for mr frank churchill to come among them and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion for a few days every morning visit in highbury included some mention of the handsome letter mrs weston had received i suppose you have heard of the handsome letter mr frank churchill has written to mrs weston i understand it was a very handsome letter indeed mr woodhouse told me of it mr woodhouse saw the letter and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life it was indeed a highly prized letter mrs weston had of course formed a very favourable idea of the young man and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured she felt herself a most fortunate woman and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled and who could ill bear to part with her she knew that at times she must be missed and could not think without pain of emmas losing a single pleasure or suffering an hours ennui from the want of her companionableness but dear emma was of no feeble character she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been and had sense and energy and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations and then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of randalls from hartfield so convenient for even solitary female walking and in mr westons disposition and circumstances which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to mrs weston and of moments only of regret and her satisfactionher more than satisfactionher cheerful enjoyment was so just and so apparent that emma well as she knew her father was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity poor miss taylor when they left her at randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own but never did she go without mr woodhouses giving a gentle sigh and saying ah poor miss taylor she would be very glad to stay there was no recovering miss taylornor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her but a few weeks brought some alleviation to mr woodhouse the compliments of his neighbours were over he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event and the weddingcake which had been a great distress to him was all eat up his own stomach could bear nothing rich and he could never believe other people to be different from himself what was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body and he had therefore earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any weddingcake at all and when that proved vain as earnestly tried to prevent any bodys eating it he had been at the pains of consulting mr perry the apothecary on the subject mr perry was an intelligent gentlemanlike man whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of mr woodhouses life and upon being applied to he could not but acknowledge though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination that weddingcake might certainly disagree with manyperhaps with most people unless taken moderately with such an opinion in confirmation of his own mr woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair but still the cake was eaten and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone there was a strange rumour in highbury of all the little perrys being seen with a slice of mrs westons weddingcake in their hands but mr woodhouse would never believe it iii mr woodhouse was fond of society in his own way he liked very much to have his friends come and see him and from various united causes from his long residence at hartfield and his good nature from his fortune his house and his daughter he could command the visits of his own little circle in a great measure as he liked he had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle his horror of late hours and large dinnerparties made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms fortunately for him highbury including randalls in the same parish and donwell abbey in the parish adjoining the seat of mr knightley comprehended many such not unfrequently through emmas persuasion he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him but evening parties were what he preferred and unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company there was scarcely an evening in the week in which emma could not make up a cardtable for him real longstanding regard brought the westons and mr knightley and by mr elton a young man living alone without liking it the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of mr woodhouses drawingroom and the smiles of his lovely daughter was in no danger of being thrown away after these came a second set among the most comeatable of whom were mrs and miss bates and mrs goddard three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from hartfield and who were fetched and carried home so often that mr woodhouse thought it no hardship for either james or the horses had it taken place only once a year it would have been a grievance mrs bates the widow of a former vicar of highbury was a very old lady almost past every thing but tea and quadrille she lived with her single daughter in a very small way and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady under such untoward circumstances can excite her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young handsome rich nor married miss bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect she had never boasted either beauty or cleverness her youth had passed without distinction and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible and yet she was a happy woman and a woman whom no one named without goodwill it was her own universal goodwill and contented temper which worked such wonders she loved every body was interested in every bodys happiness quicksighted to every bodys merits thought herself a most fortunate creature and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother and so many good neighbours and friends and a home that wanted for nothing the simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature her contented and grateful spirit were a recommendation to every body and a mine of felicity to herself she was a great talker upon little matters which exactly suited mr woodhouse full of trivial communications and harmless gossip mrs goddard was the mistress of a schoolnot of a seminary or an establishment or any thing which professed in long sentences of refined nonsense to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality upon new principles and new systemsand where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanitybut a real honest oldfashioned boardingschool where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price and where girls might be sent to be out of the way and scramble themselves into a little education without any danger of coming back prodigies mrs goddards school was in high reputeand very deservedly for highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot she had an ample house and garden gave the children plenty of wholesome food let them run about a great deal in the summer and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands it was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church she was a plain motherly kind of woman who had worked hard in her youth and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a teavisit and having formerly owed much to mr woodhouses kindness felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour hung round with fancywork whenever she could and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside these were the ladies whom emma found herself very frequently able to collect and happy was she for her fathers sake in the power though as far as she was herself concerned it was no remedy for the absence of mrs weston she was delighted to see her father look comfortable and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated as she sat one morning looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day a note was brought from mrs goddard requesting in most respectful terms to be allowed to bring miss smith with her a most welcome request for miss smith was a girl of seventeen whom emma knew very well by sight and had long felt an interest in on account of her beauty a very gracious invitation was returned and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion harriet smith was the natural daughter of somebody somebody had placed her several years back at mrs goddards school and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlourboarder this was all that was generally known of her history she had no visible friends but what had been acquired at highbury and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her she was a very pretty girl and her beauty happened to be of a sort which emma particularly admired she was short plump and fair with a fine bloom blue eyes light hair regular features and a look of great sweetness and before the end of the evening emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person and quite determined to continue the acquaintance she was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in miss smiths conversation but she found her altogether very engagingnot inconveniently shy not unwilling to talkand yet so far from pushing shewing so proper and becoming a deference seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to hartfield and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to that she must have good sense and deserve encouragement encouragement should be given those soft blue eyes and all those natural graces should not be wasted on the inferior society of highbury and its connexions the acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her the friends from whom she had just parted though very good sort of people must be doing her harm they were a family of the name of martin whom emma well knew by character as renting a large farm of mr knightley and residing in the parish of donwellvery creditably she believedshe knew mr knightley thought highly of thembut they must be coarse and unpolished and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect she would notice her she would improve her she would detach her from her bad acquaintance and introduce her into good society she would form her opinions and her manners it would be an interesting and certainly a very kind undertaking highly becoming her own situation in life her leisure and powers she was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes in talking and listening and forming all these schemes in the inbetweens that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate and the suppertable which always closed such parties and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time was all set out and ready and moved forwards to the fire before she was aware with an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively with the real goodwill of a mind delighted with its own ideas did she then do all the honours of the meal and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests upon such occasions poor mr woodhouses feelings were in sad warfare he loved to have the cloth laid because it had been the fashion of his youth but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could with thorough selfapprobation recommend though he might constrain himself while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things to say mrs bates let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs an egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome serle understands boiling an egg better than any body i would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else but you need not be afraid they are very small you seeone of our small eggs will not hurt you miss bates let emma help you to a little bit of tarta very little bit ours are all appletarts you need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here i do not advise the custard mrs goddard what say you to half a glass of wine a small halfglass put into a tumbler of water i do not think it could disagree with you emma allowed her father to talkbut supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy the happiness of miss smith was quite equal to her intentions miss woodhouse was so great a personage in highbury that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure but the humble grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings delighted with the affability with which miss woodhouse had treated her all the evening and actually shaken hands with her at last iv harriet smiths intimacy at hartfield was soon a settled thing quick and decided in her ways emma lost no time in inviting encouraging and telling her to come very often and as their acquaintance increased so did their satisfaction in each other as a walking companion emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her in that respect mrs westons loss had been important her father never went beyond the shrubbery where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk or his short as the year varied and since mrs westons marriage her exercise had been too much confined she had ventured once alone to randalls but it was not pleasant and a harriet smith therefore one whom she could summon at any time to a walk would be a valuable addition to her privileges but in every respect as she saw more of her she approved her and was confirmed in all her kind designs harriet certainly was not clever but she had a sweet docile grateful disposition was totally free from conceit and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up to her early attachment to herself was very amiable and her inclination for good company and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever shewed that there was no want of taste though strength of understanding must not be expected altogether she was quite convinced of harriet smiths being exactly the young friend she wantedexactly the something which her home required such a friend as mrs weston was out of the question two such could never be granted two such she did not want it was quite a different sort of thing a sentiment distinct and independent mrs weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful for mrs weston there was nothing to be done for harriet every thing her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the parents but harriet could not tell she was ready to tell every thing in her power but on this subject questions were vain emma was obliged to fancy what she likedbut she could never believe that in the same situation she should not have discovered the truth harriet had no penetration she had been satisfied to hear and believe just what mrs goddard chose to tell her and looked no farther mrs goddard and the teachers and the girls and the affairs of the school in general formed naturally a great part of the conversationand but for her acquaintance with the martins of abbeymill farm it must have been the whole but the martins occupied her thoughts a good deal she had spent two very happy months with them and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place emma encouraged her talkativenessamused by such a picture of another set of beings and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of mrs martins having two parlours two very good parlours indeed one of them quite as large as mrs goddards drawingroom and of her having an upper maid who had lived fiveandtwenty years with her and of their having eight cows two of them alderneys and one a little welch cow a very pretty little welch cow indeed and of mrs martins saying as she was so fond of it it should be called her cow and of their having a very handsome summerhouse in their garden where some day next year they were all to drink teaa very handsome summerhouse large enough to hold a dozen people for some time she was amused without thinking beyond the immediate cause but as she came to understand the family better other feelings arose she had taken up a wrong idea fancying it was a mother and daughter a son and sons wife who all lived together but when it appeared that the mr martin who bore a part in the narrative and was always mentioned with approbation for his great goodnature in doing something or other was a single man that there was no young mrs martin no wife in the case she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness and that if she were not taken care of she might be required to sink herself forever with this inspiriting notion her questions increased in number and meaning and she particularly led harriet to talk more of mr martin and there was evidently no dislike to it harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very goodhumoured and obliging he had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts because she had said how fond she was of them and in every thing else he was so very obliging he had his shepherds son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her she was very fond of singing he could sing a little himself she believed he was very clever and understood every thing he had a very fine flock and while she was with them he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country she believed every body spoke well of him his mother and sisters were very fond of him mrs martin had told her one day and there was a blush as she said it that it was impossible for any body to be a better son and therefore she was sure whenever he married he would make a good husband not that she wanted him to marry she was in no hurry at all well done mrs martin thought emma you know what you are about and when she had come away mrs martin was so very kind as to send mrs goddard a beautiful goosethe finest goose mrs goddard had ever seen mrs goddard had dressed it on a sunday and asked all the three teachers miss nash and miss prince and miss richardson to sup with her mr martin i suppose is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business he does not read oh yesthat is noi do not knowbut i believe he has read a good dealbut not what you would think any thing of he reads the agricultural reports and some other books that lay in one of the window seatsbut he reads all them to himself but sometimes of an evening before we went to cards he would read something aloud out of the elegant extracts very entertaining and i know he has read the vicar of wakefield he never read the romance of the forest nor the children of the abbey he had never heard of such books before i mentioned them but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can the next question was what sort of looking man is mr martin oh not handsomenot at all handsome i thought him very plain at first but i do not think him so plain now one does not you know after a time but did you never see him he is in highbury every now and then and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to kingston he has passed you very often that may be and i may have seen him fifty times but without having any idea of his name a young farmer whether on horseback or on foot is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity the yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom i feel i can have nothing to do a degree or two lower and a creditable appearance might interest me i might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other but a farmer can need none of my help and is therefore in one sense as much above my notice as in every other he is below it to be sure oh yes it is not likely you should ever have observed him but he knows you very well indeedi mean by sight i have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man i know indeed that he is so and as such wish him well what do you imagine his age to be he was fourandtwenty the 8th of last june and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a days differencewhich is very odd only fourandtwenty that is too young to settle his mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry they seem very comfortable as they are and if she were to take any pains to marry him she would probably repent it six years hence if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own with a little money it might be very desirable six years hence dear miss woodhouse he would be thirty years old well and that is as early as most men can afford to marry who are not born to an independence mr martin i imagine has his fortune entirely to makecannot be at all beforehand with the world whatever money he might come into when his father died whatever his share of the family property it is i dare say all afloat all employed in his stock and so forth and though with diligence and good luck he may be rich in time it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet to be sure so it is but they live very comfortably they have no indoors man else they do not want for any thing and mrs martin talks of taking a boy another year i wish you may not get into a scrape harriet whenever he does marryi mean as to being acquainted with his wifefor though his sisters from a superior education are not to be altogether objected to it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice the misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates there can be no doubt of your being a gentlemans daughter and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own power or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you yes to be sure i suppose there are but while i visit at hartfield and you are so kind to me miss woodhouse i am not afraid of what any body can do you understand the force of influence pretty well harriet but i would have you so firmly established in good society as to be independent even of hartfield and miss woodhouse i want to see you permanently well connected and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be and therefore i say that if you should still be in this country when mr martin marries i wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters to be acquainted with the wife who will probably be some mere farmers daughter without education to be sure yes not that i think mr martin would ever marry any body but what had had some educationand been very well brought up however i do not mean to set up my opinion against yoursand i am sure i shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife i shall always have a great regard for the miss martins especially elizabeth and should be very sorry to give them up for they are quite as well educated as me but if he marries a very ignorant vulgar woman certainly i had better not visit her if i can help it emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech and saw no alarming symptoms of love the young man had been the first admirer but she trusted there was no other hold and that there would be no serious difficulty on harriets side to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own they met mr martin the very next day as they were walking on the donwell road he was on foot and after looking very respectfully at her looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion emma was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey and walking a few yards forward while they talked together soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with mr robert martin his appearance was very neat and he looked like a sensible young man but his person had no other advantage and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in harriets inclination harriet was not insensible of manner she had voluntarily noticed her fathers gentleness with admiration as well as wonder mr martin looked as if he did not know what manner was they remained but a few minutes together as miss woodhouse must not be kept waiting and harriet then came running to her with a smiling face and in a flutter of spirits which miss woodhouse hoped very soon to compose only think of our happening to meet himhow very odd it was quite a chance he said that he had not gone round by randalls he did not think we ever walked this road he thought we walked towards randalls most days he has not been able to get the romance of the forest yet he was so busy the last time he was at kingston that he quite forgot it but he goes again tomorrow so very odd we should happen to meet well miss woodhouse is he like what you expected what do you think of him do you think him so very plain he is very plain undoubtedlyremarkably plainbut that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility i had no right to expect much and i did not expect much but i had no idea that he could be so very clownish so totally without air i had imagined him i confess a degree or two nearer gentility to be sure said harriet in a mortified voice he is not so genteel as real gentlemen i think harriet since your acquaintance with us you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen that you must yourself be struck with the difference in mr martin at hartfield you have had very good specimens of well educated well bred men i should be surprized if after seeing them you could be in company with mr martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creatureand rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before do not you begin to feel that now were not you struck i am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner and the uncouthness of a voice which i heard to be wholly unmodulated as i stood here certainly he is not like mr knightley he has not such a fine air and way of walking as mr knightley i see the difference plain enough but mr knightley is so very fine a man mr knightleys air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare mr martin with him you might not see one in a hundred with gentleman so plainly written as in mr knightley but he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to what say you to mr weston and mr elton compare mr martin with either of them compare their manner of carrying themselves of walking of speaking of being silent you must see the difference oh yesthere is a great difference but mr weston is almost an old man mr weston must be between forty and fifty which makes his good manners the more valuable the older a person grows harriet the more important it is that their manners should not be bad the more glaring and disgusting any loudness or coarseness or awkwardness becomes what is passable in youth is detestable in later age mr martin is now awkward and abrupt what will he be at mr westons time of life there is no saying indeed replied harriet rather solemnly but there may be pretty good guessing he will be a completely gross vulgar farmer totally inattentive to appearances and thinking of nothing but profit and loss will he indeed that will be very bad how much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended he was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing elsewhich is just as it should be for a thriving man what has he to do with books and i have no doubt that he will thrive and be a very rich man in timeand his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb us i wonder he did not remember the bookwas all harriets answer and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which emma thought might be safely left to itself she therefore said no more for some time her next beginning was in one respect perhaps mr eltons manners are superior to mr knightleys or mr westons they have more gentleness they might be more safely held up as a pattern there is an openness a quickness almost a bluntness in mr weston which every body likes in him because there is so much goodhumour with itbut that would not do to be copied neither would mr knightleys downright decided commanding sort of manner though it suits him very well his figure and look and situation in life seem to allow it but if any young man were to set about copying him he would not be sufferable on the contrary i think a young man might be very safely recommended to take mr elton as a model mr elton is goodhumoured cheerful obliging and gentle he seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late i do not know whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us harriet by additional softness but it strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be if he means any thing it must be to please you did not i tell you what he said of you the other day she then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from mr elton and now did full justice to and harriet blushed and smiled and said she had always thought mr elton very agreeable mr elton was the very person fixed on by emma for driving the young farmer out of harriets head she thought it would be an excellent match and only too palpably desirable natural and probable for her to have much merit in planning it she feared it was what every body else must think of and predict it was not likely however that any body should have equalled her in the date of the plan as it had entered her brain during the very first evening of harriets coming to hartfield the longer she considered it the greater was her sense of its expediency mr eltons situation was most suitable quite the gentleman himself and without low connexions at the same time not of any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of harriet he had a comfortable home for her and emma imagined a very sufficient income for though the vicarage of highbury was not large he was known to have some independent property and she thought very highly of him as a goodhumoured wellmeaning respectable young man without any deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world she had already satisfied herself that he thought harriet a beautiful girl which she trusted with such frequent meetings at hartfield was foundation enough on his side and on harriets there could be little doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual weight and efficacy and he was really a very pleasing young man a young man whom any woman not fastidious might like he was reckoned very handsome his person much admired in general though not by her there being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense withbut the girl who could be gratified by a robert martins riding about the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered by mr eltons admiration v i do not know what your opinion may be mrs weston said mr knightley of this great intimacy between emma and harriet smith but i think it a bad thing a bad thing do you really think it a bad thingwhy so i think they will neither of them do the other any good you surprize me emma must do harriet good and by supplying her with a new object of interest harriet may be said to do emma good i have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure how very differently we feelnot think they will do each other any good this will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about emma mr knightley perhaps you think i am come on purpose to quarrel with you knowing weston to be out and that you must still fight your own battle mr weston would undoubtedly support me if he were here for he thinks exactly as i do on the subject we were speaking of it only yesterday and agreeing how fortunate it was for emma that there should be such a girl in highbury for her to associate with mr knightley i shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case you are so much used to live alone that you do not know the value of a companion and perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex after being used to it all her life i can imagine your objection to harriet smith she is not the superior young woman which emmas friend ought to be but on the other hand as emma wants to see her better informed it will be an inducement to her to read more herself they will read together she means it i know emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old i have seen a great many lists of her drawingup at various times of books that she meant to read regularly throughand very good lists they werevery well chosen and very neatly arrangedsometimes alphabetically and sometimes by some other rule the list she drew up when only fourteeni remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit that i preserved it some time and i dare say she may have made out a very good list now but i have done with expecting any course of steady reading from emma she will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding where miss taylor failed to stimulate i may safely affirm that harriet smith will do nothingyou never could persuade her to read half so much as you wishedyou know you could not i dare say replied mrs weston smiling that i thought so thenbut since we have parted i can never remember emmas omitting to do any thing i wished there is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as thatsaid mr knightley feelingly and for a moment or two he had done but i he soon added who have had no such charm thrown over my senses must still see hear and remember emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family at ten years old she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen she was always quick and assured isabella slow and diffident and ever since she was twelve emma has been mistress of the house and of you all in her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her she inherits her mothers talents and must have been under subjection to her i should have been sorry mr knightley to be dependent on your recommendation had i quitted mr woodhouses family and wanted another situation i do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body i am sure you always thought me unfit for the office i held yes said he smiling you are better placed here very fit for a wife but not at all for a governess but you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at hartfield you might not give emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise but you were receiving a very good education from her on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will and doing as you were bid and if weston had asked me to recommend him a wife i should certainly have named miss taylor thank you there will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as mr weston why to own the truth i am afraid you are rather thrown away and that with every disposition to bear there will be nothing to be borne we will not despair however weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort or his son may plague him i hope not thatit is not likely no mr knightley do not foretell vexation from that quarter not i indeed i only name possibilities i do not pretend to emmas genius for foretelling and guessing i hope with all my heart the young man may be a weston in merit and a churchill in fortunebut harriet smithi have not half done about harriet smith i think her the very worst sort of companion that emma could possibly have she knows nothing herself and looks upon emma as knowing every thing she is a flatterer in all her ways and so much the worse because undesigned her ignorance is hourly flattery how can emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself while harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority and as for harriet i will venture to say that she cannot gain by the acquaintance hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to she will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home i am much mistaken if emmas doctrines give any strength of mind or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in lifethey only give a little polish i either depend more upon emmas good sense than you do or am more anxious for her present comfort for i cannot lament the acquaintance how well she looked last night oh you would rather talk of her person than her mind would you very well i shall not attempt to deny emmas being pretty pretty say beautiful rather can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than emma altogetherface and figure i do not know what i could imagine but i confess that i have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers but i am a partial old friend such an eyethe true hazle eyeand so brilliant regular features open countenance with a complexion oh what a bloom of full health and such a pretty height and size such a firm and upright figure there is health not merely in her bloom but in her air her head her glance one hears sometimes of a child being the picture of health now emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grownup health she is loveliness itself mr knightley is not she i have not a fault to find with her person he replied i think her all you describe i love to look at her and i will add this praise that i do not think her personally vain considering how very handsome she is she appears to be little occupied with it her vanity lies another way mrs weston i am not to be talked out of my dislike of harriet smith or my dread of its doing them both harm and i mr knightley am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm with all dear emmas little faults she is an excellent creature where shall we see a better daughter or a kinder sister or a truer friend no no she has qualities which may be trusted she will never lead any one really wrong she will make no lasting blunder where emma errs once she is in the right a hundred times very well i will not plague you any more emma shall be an angel and i will keep my spleen to myself till christmas brings john and isabella john loves emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection and isabella always thinks as he does except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children i am sure of having their opinions with me i know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind but excuse me mr knightley if i take the liberty i consider myself you know as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that emmas mother might have had the liberty of hinting that i do not think any possible good can arise from harriet smiths intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you pray excuse me but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy it cannot be expected that emma accountable to nobody but her father who perfectly approves the acquaintance should put an end to it so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself it has been so many years my province to give advice that you cannot be surprized mr knightley at this little remains of office not at all cried he i am much obliged to you for it it is very good advice and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found for it shall be attended to mrs john knightley is easily alarmed and might be made unhappy about her sister be satisfied said he i will not raise any outcry i will keep my illhumour to myself i have a very sincere interest in emma isabella does not seem more my sister has never excited a greater interest perhaps hardly so great there is an anxiety a curiosity in what one feels for emma i wonder what will become of her so do i said mrs weston gently very much she always declares she will never marry which of course means just nothing at all but i have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for it would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object i should like to see emma in love and in some doubt of a return it would do her good but there is nobody hereabouts to attach her and she goes so seldom from home there does indeed seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present said mrs weston as can well be and while she is so happy at hartfield i cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor mr woodhouses account i do not recommend matrimony at present to emma though i mean no slight to the state i assure you part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and mr westons on the subject as much as possible there were wishes at randalls respecting emmas destiny but it was not desirable to have them suspected and the quiet transition which mr knightley soon afterwards made to what does weston think of the weather shall we have rain convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about hartfield vi emma could not feel a doubt of having given harriets fancy a proper direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good purpose for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of mr eltons being a remarkably handsome man with most agreeable manners and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his admiration by agreeable hints she was soon pretty confident of creating as much liking on harriets side as there could be any occasion for she was quite convinced of mr eltons being in the fairest way of falling in love if not in love already she had no scruple with regard to him he talked of harriet and praised her so warmly that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add his perception of the striking improvement of harriets manner since her introduction at hartfield was not one of the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment you have given miss smith all that she required said he you have made her graceful and easy she was a beautiful creature when she came to you but in my opinion the attractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature i am glad you think i have been useful to her but harriet only wanted drawing out and receiving a few very few hints she had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself i have done very little if it were admissible to contradict a lady said the gallant mr elton i have perhaps given her a little more decision of character have taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before exactly so that is what principally strikes me so much superadded decision of character skilful has been the hand great has been the pleasure i am sure i never met with a disposition more truly amiable i have no doubt of it and it was spoken with a sort of sighing animation which had a vast deal of the lover she was not less pleased another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers to have harriets picture did you ever have your likeness taken harriet said she did you ever sit for your picture harriet was on the point of leaving the room and only stopt to say with a very interesting naïveté oh dear no never no sooner was she out of sight than emma exclaimed what an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be i would give any money for it i almost long to attempt her likeness myself you do not know it i dare say but two or three years ago i had a great passion for taking likenesses and attempted several of my friends and was thought to have a tolerable eye in general but from one cause or another i gave it up in disgust but really i could almost venture if harriet would sit to me it would be such a delight to have her picture let me entreat you cried mr elton it would indeed be a delight let me entreat you miss woodhouse to exercise so charming a talent in favour of your friend i know what your drawings are how could you suppose me ignorant is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers and has not mrs weston some inimitable figurepieces in her drawingroom at randalls yes good manthought emmabut what has all that to do with taking likenesses you know nothing of drawing dont pretend to be in raptures about mine keep your raptures for harriets face well if you give me such kind encouragement mr elton i believe i shall try what i can do harriets features are very delicate which makes a likeness difficult and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch exactly sothe shape of the eye and the lines about the mouthi have not a doubt of your success pray pray attempt it as you will do it it will indeed to use your own words be an exquisite possession but i am afraid mr elton harriet will not like to sit she thinks so little of her own beauty did not you observe her manner of answering me how completely it meant why should my picture be drawn oh yes i observed it i assure you it was not lost on me but still i cannot imagine she would not be persuaded harriet was soon back again and the proposal almost immediately made and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others emma wished to go to work directly and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits for not one of them had ever been finished that they might decide together on the best size for harriet her many beginnings were displayed miniatures halflengths wholelengths pencil crayon and watercolours had been all tried in turn she had always wanted to do every thing and had made more progress both in drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to she played and sangand drew in almost every style but steadiness had always been wanting and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command and ought not to have failed of she was not much deceived as to her own skill either as an artist or a musician but she was not unwilling to have others deceived or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved there was merit in every drawingin the least finished perhaps the most her style was spirited but had there been much less or had there been ten times more the delight and admiration of her two companions would have been the same they were both in ecstasies a likeness pleases every body and miss woodhouses performances must be capital no great variety of faces for you said emma i had only my own family to study from there is my fatheranother of my fatherbut the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous that i could only take him by stealth neither of them very like therefore mrs weston again and again and again you see dear mrs weston always my kindest friend on every occasion she would sit whenever i asked her there is my sister and really quite her own little elegant figureand the face not unlike i should have made a good likeness of her if she would have sat longer but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she would not be quiet then here come all my attempts at three of those four childrenthere they are henry and john and bella from one end of the sheet to the other and any one of them might do for any one of the rest she was so eager to have them drawn that i could not refuse but there is no making children of three or four years old stand still you know nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them beyond the air and complexion unless they are coarser featured than any of mamas children ever were here is my sketch of the fourth who was a baby i took him as he was sleeping on the sofa and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to see he had nestled down his head most conveniently thats very like i am rather proud of little george the corner of the sofa is very good then here is my lastunclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size wholelengthmy last and my bestmy brother mr john knightleythis did not want much of being finished when i put it away in a pet and vowed i would never take another likeness i could not help being provoked for after all my pains and when i had really made a very good likeness of itmrs weston and i were quite agreed in thinking it very likeonly too handsometoo flatteringbut that was a fault on the right sideafter all this came poor dear isabellas cold approbation ofyes it was a little likebut to be sure it did not do him justice we had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all it was made a great favour of and altogether it was more than i could bear and so i never would finish it to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness to every morning visitor in brunswick squareand as i said i did then forswear ever drawing any body again but for harriets sake or rather for my own and as there are no husbands and wives in the case at present i will break my resolution now mr elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea and was repeating no husbands and wives in the case at present indeed as you observe exactly so no husbands and wives with so interesting a consciousness that emma began to consider whether she had not better leave them together at once but as she wanted to be drawing the declaration must wait a little longer she had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait it was to be a wholelength in watercolours like mr john knightleys and was destined if she could please herself to hold a very honourable station over the mantelpiece the sitting began and harriet smiling and blushing and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist but there was no doing any thing with mr elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch she gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze again without offence but was really obliged to put an end to it and request him to place himself elsewhere it then occurred to her to employ him in reading if he would be so good as to read to them it would be a kindness indeed it would amuse away the difficulties of her part and lessen the irksomeness of miss smiths mr elton was only too happy harriet listened and emma drew in peace she must allow him to be still frequently coming to look any thing less would certainly have been too little in a lover and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the pencil to jump up and see the progress and be charmedthere was no being displeased with such an encourager for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it was possible she could not respect his eye but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable the sitting was altogether very satisfactory she was quite enough pleased with the first days sketch to wish to go on there was no want of likeness she had been fortunate in the attitude and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure to give a little more height and considerably more elegance she had great confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing at last and of its filling its destined place with credit to them botha standing memorial of the beauty of one the skill of the other and the friendship of both with as many other agreeable associations as mr eltons very promising attachment was likely to add harriet was to sit again the next day and mr elton just as he ought entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again by all means we shall be most happy to consider you as one of the party the same civilities and courtesies the same success and satisfaction took place on the morrow and accompanied the whole progress of the picture which was rapid and happy every body who saw it was pleased but mr elton was in continual raptures and defended it through every criticism miss woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she wantedobserved mrs weston to himnot in the least suspecting that she was addressing a loverthe expression of the eye is most correct but miss smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes it is the fault of her face that she has them not do you think so replied he i cannot agree with you it appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature i never saw such a likeness in my life we must allow for the effect of shade you know you have made her too tall emma said mr knightley emma knew that she had but would not own it and mr elton warmly added oh no certainly not too tall not in the least too tall consider she is sitting downwhich naturally presents a differentwhich in short gives exactly the ideaand the proportions must be preserved you know proportions foreshorteningoh no it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as miss smiths exactly so indeed it is very pretty said mr woodhouse so prettily done just as your drawings always are my dear i do not know any body who draws so well as you do the only thing i do not thoroughly like is that she seems to be sitting out of doors with only a little shawl over her shouldersand it makes one think she must catch cold but my dear papa it is supposed to be summer a warm day in summer look at the tree but it is never safe to sit out of doors my dear you sir may say any thing cried mr elton but i must confess that i regard it as a most happy thought the placing of miss smith out of doors and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit any other situation would have been much less in character the naïveté of miss smiths mannersand altogetheroh it is most admirable i cannot keep my eyes from it i never saw such a likeness the next thing wanted was to get the picture framed and here were a few difficulties it must be done directly it must be done in london the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste could be depended on and isabella the usual doer of all commissions must not be applied to because it was december and mr woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of december but no sooner was the distress known to mr elton than it was removed his gallantry was always on the alert might he be trusted with the commission what infinite pleasure should he have in executing it he could ride to london at any time it was impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand he was too goodshe could not endure the thoughtshe would not give him such a troublesome office for the worldbrought on the desired repetition of entreaties and assurancesand a very few minutes settled the business mr elton was to take the drawing to london chuse the frame and give the directions and emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its safety without much incommoding him while he seemed mostly fearful of not being incommoded enough what a precious deposit said he with a tender sigh as he received it this man is almost too gallant to be in love thought emma i should say so but that i suppose there may be a hundred different ways of being in love he is an excellent young man and will suit harriet exactly it will be an exactly so as he says himself but he does sigh and languish and study for compliments rather more than i could endure as a principal i come in for a pretty good share as a second but it is his gratitude on harriets account vii the very day of mr eltons going to london produced a fresh occasion for emmas services towards her friend harriet had been at hartfield as usual soon after breakfast and after a time had gone home to return again to dinner she returned and sooner than had been talked of and with an agitated hurried look announcing something extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell half a minute brought it all out she had heard as soon as she got back to mrs goddards that mr martin had been there an hour before and finding she was not at home nor particularly expected had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters and gone away and on opening this parcel she had actually found besides the two songs which she had lent elizabeth to copy a letter to herself and this letter was from him from mr martin and contained a direct proposal of marriage who could have thought it she was so surprized she did not know what to do yes quite a proposal of marriage and a very good letter at least she thought so and he wrote as if he really loved her very muchbut she did not knowand so she was come as fast as she could to ask miss woodhouse what she should do emma was halfashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful upon my word she cried the young man is determined not to lose any thing for want of asking he will connect himself well if he can will you read the letter cried harriet pray do iid rather you would emma was not sorry to be pressed she read and was surprized the style of the letter was much above her expectation there were not merely no grammatical errors but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman the language though plain was strong and unaffected and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer it was short but expressed good sense warm attachment liberality propriety even delicacy of feeling she paused over it while harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion with a well well and was at last forced to add is it a good letter or is it too short yes indeed a very good letter replied emma rather slowlyso good a letter harriet that every thing considered i think one of his sisters must have helped him i can hardly imagine the young man whom i saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well if left quite to his own powers and yet it is not the style of a woman no certainly it is too strong and concise not diffuse enough for a woman no doubt he is a sensible man and i suppose may have a natural talent forthinks strongly and clearlyand when he takes a pen in hand his thoughts naturally find proper words it is so with some men yes i understand the sort of mind vigorous decided with sentiments to a certain point not coarse a better written letter harriet returning it than i had expected well said the still waiting harrietwellandand what shall i do what shall you do in what respect do you mean with regard to this letter yes but what are you in doubt of you must answer it of courseand speedily yes but what shall i say dear miss woodhouse do advise me oh no no the letter had much better be all your own you will express yourself very properly i am sure there is no danger of your not being intelligible which is the first thing your meaning must be unequivocal no doubts or demurs and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires will present themselves unbidden to your mind i am persuaded you need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment you think i ought to refuse him then said harriet looking down ought to refuse him my dear harriet what do you mean are you in any doubt as to that i thoughtbut i beg your pardon perhaps i have been under a mistake i certainly have been misunderstanding you if you feel in doubt as to the purport of your answer i had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it harriet was silent with a little reserve of manner emma continued you mean to return a favourable answer i collect no i do not that is i do not meanwhat shall i do what would you advise me to do pray dear miss woodhouse tell me what i ought to do i shall not give you any advice harriet i will have nothing to do with it this is a point which you must settle with your feelings i had no notion that he liked me so very much said harriet contemplating the letter for a little while emma persevered in her silence but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful she thought it best to say i lay it down as a general rule harriet that if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not she certainly ought to refuse him if she can hesitate as to yes she ought to say no directly it is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings with half a heart i thought it my duty as a friend and older than yourself to say thus much to you but do not imagine that i want to influence you oh no i am sure you are a great deal too kind tobut if you would just advise me what i had best dono no i do not mean thatas you say ones mind ought to be quite made upone should not be hesitatingit is a very serious thingit will be safer to say no perhapsdo you think i had better say no not for the world said emma smiling graciously would i advise you either way you must be the best judge of your own happiness if you prefer mr martin to every other person if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with why should you hesitate you blush harrietdoes any body else occur to you at this moment under such a definition harriet harriet do not deceive yourself do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion at this moment whom are you thinking of the symptoms were favourableinstead of answering harriet turned away confused and stood thoughtfully by the fire and though the letter was still in her hand it was now mechanically twisted about without regard emma waited the result with impatience but not without strong hopes at last with some hesitation harriet said miss woodhouse as you will not give me your opinion i must do as well as i can by myself and i have now quite determined and really almost made up my mindto refuse mr martin do you think i am right perfectly perfectly right my dearest harriet you are doing just what you ought while you were at all in suspense i kept my feelings to myself but now that you are so completely decided i have no hesitation in approving dear harriet i give myself joy of this it would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance which must have been the consequence of your marrying mr martin while you were in the smallest degree wavering i said nothing about it because i would not influence but it would have been the loss of a friend to me i could not have visited mrs robert martin of abbeymill farm now i am secure of you for ever harriet had not surmised her own danger but the idea of it struck her forcibly you could not have visited me she cried looking aghast no to be sure you could not but i never thought of that before that would have been too dreadfulwhat an escapedear miss woodhouse i would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the world indeed harriet it would have been a severe pang to lose you but it must have been you would have thrown yourself out of all good society i must have given you up dear mehow should i ever have borne it it would have killed me never to come to hartfield any more dear affectionate creatureyou banished to abbeymill farmyou confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life i wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it he must have a pretty good opinion of himself i do not think he is conceited either in general said harriet her conscience opposing such censure at least he is very good natured and i shall always feel much obliged to him and have a great regard forbut that is quite a different thing fromand you know though he may like me it does not follow that i shouldand certainly i must confess that since my visiting here i have seen peopleand if one comes to compare them person and manners there is no comparison at all one is so very handsome and agreeable however i do really think mr martin a very amiable young man and have a great opinion of him and his being so much attached to meand his writing such a letterbut as to leaving you it is what i would not do upon any consideration thank you thank you my own sweet little friend we will not be parted a woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked or because he is attached to her and can write a tolerable letter oh noand it is but a short letter too emma felt the bad taste of her friend but let it pass with a very true and it would be a small consolation to her for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day to know that her husband could write a good letter oh yes very nobody cares for a letter the thing is to be always happy with pleasant companions i am quite determined to refuse him but how shall i do what shall i say emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer and advised its being written directly which was agreed to in the hope of her assistance and though emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence the looking over his letter again in replying to it had such a softening tendency that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions and she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful that emma believed if the young man had come in her way at that moment he would have been accepted after all this letter however was written and sealed and sent the business was finished and harriet safe she was rather low all the evening but emma could allow for her amiable regrets and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection sometimes by bringing forward the idea of mr elton i shall never be invited to abbeymill again was said in rather a sorrowful tone nor if you were could i ever bear to part with you my harriet you are a great deal too necessary at hartfield to be spared to abbeymill and i am sure i should never want to go there for i am never happy but at hartfield some time afterwards it was i think mrs goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened i am sure miss nash wouldfor miss nash thinks her own sister very well married and it is only a linendraper one should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher of a school harriet i dare say miss nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes as to any thing superior for you i suppose she is quite in the dark the attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittletattle of highbury yet hitherto i fancy you and i are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves harriet blushed and smiled and said something about wondering that people should like her so much the idea of mr elton was certainly cheering but still after a time she was tenderhearted again towards the rejected mr martin now he has got my letter said she softly i wonder what they are all doingwhether his sisters knowif he is unhappy they will be unhappy too i hope he will not mind it so very much let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully employed cried emma at this moment perhaps mr elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters telling how much more beautiful is the original and after being asked for it five or six times allowing them to hear your name your own dear name my picturebut he has left my picture in bondstreet has he sothen i know nothing of mr elton no my dear little modest harriet depend upon it the picture will not be in bondstreet till just before he mounts his horse tomorrow it is his companion all this evening his solace his delight it opens his designs to his family it introduces you among them it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature eager curiosity and warm prepossession how cheerful how animated how suspicious how busy their imaginations all are harriet smiled again and her smiles grew stronger viii harriet slept at hartfield that night for some weeks past she had been spending more than half her time there and gradually getting to have a bedroom appropriated to herself and emma judged it best in every respect safest and kindest to keep her with them as much as possible just at present she was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to mrs goddards but it was then to be settled that she should return to hartfield to make a regular visit of some days while she was gone mr knightley called and sat some time with mr woodhouse and emma till mr woodhouse who had previously made up his mind to walk out was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it and was induced by the entreaties of both though against the scruples of his own civility to leave mr knightley for that purpose mr knightley who had nothing of ceremony about him was offering by his short decided answers an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other well i believe if you will excuse me mr knightley if you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing i shall take emmas advice and go out for a quarter of an hour as the sun is out i believe i had better take my three turns while i can i treat you without ceremony mr knightley we invalids think we are privileged people my dear sir do not make a stranger of me i leave an excellent substitute in my daughter emma will be happy to entertain you and therefore i think i will beg your excuse and take my three turnsmy winter walk you cannot do better sir i would ask for the pleasure of your company mr knightley but i am a very slow walker and my pace would be tedious to you and besides you have another long walk before you to donwell abbey thank you sir thank you i am going this moment myself and i think the sooner you go the better i will fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you mr woodhouse at last was off but mr knightley instead of being immediately off likewise sat down again seemingly inclined for more chat he began speaking of harriet and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than emma had ever heard before i cannot rate her beauty as you do said he but she is a pretty little creature and i am inclined to think very well of her disposition her character depends upon those she is with but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman i am glad you think so and the good hands i hope may not be wanting come said he you are anxious for a compliment so i will tell you that you have improved her you have cured her of her schoolgirls giggle she really does you credit thank you i should be mortified indeed if i did not believe i had been of some use but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they may you do not often overpower me with it you are expecting her again you say this morning almost every moment she has been gone longer already than she intended something has happened to delay her some visitors perhaps highbury gossipstiresome wretches harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would emma knew this was too true for contradiction and therefore said nothing he presently added with a smile i do not pretend to fix on times or places but i must tell you that i have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to her advantage indeed how so of what sort a very serious sort i assure you still smiling very serious i can think of but one thingwho is in love with her who makes you their confidant emma was more than half in hopes of mr eltons having dropt a hint mr knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser and she knew mr elton looked up to him i have reason to think he replied that harriet smith will soon have an offer of marriage and from a most unexceptionable quarterrobert martin is the man her visit to abbeymill this summer seems to have done his business he is desperately in love and means to marry her he is very obliging said emma but is he sure that harriet means to marry him well well means to make her an offer then will that do he came to the abbey two evenings ago on purpose to consult me about it he knows i have a thorough regard for him and all his family and i believe considers me as one of his best friends he came to ask me whether i thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early whether i thought her too young in short whether i approved his choice altogether having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered especially since your making so much of her as in a line of society above him i was very much pleased with all that he said i never hear better sense from any one than robert martin he always speaks to the purpose open straightforward and very well judging he told me every thing his circumstances and plans and what they all proposed doing in the event of his marriage he is an excellent young man both as son and brother i had no hesitation in advising him to marry he proved to me that he could afford it and that being the case i was convinced he could not do better i praised the fair lady too and altogether sent him away very happy if he had never esteemed my opinion before he would have thought highly of me then and i dare say left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had this happened the night before last now as we may fairly suppose he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday it is not unlikely that he should be at mrs goddards today and she may be detained by a visitor without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch pray mr knightley said emma who had been smiling to herself through a great part of this speech how do you know that mr martin did not speak yesterday certainly replied he surprized i do not absolutely know it but it may be inferred was not she the whole day with you come said she i will tell you something in return for what you have told me he did speak yesterdaythat is he wrote and was refused this was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed and mr knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure as he stood up in tall indignation and said then she is a greater simpleton than i ever believed her what is the foolish girl about oh to be sure cried emma it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage a man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her nonsense a man does not imagine any such thing but what is the meaning of this harriet smith refuse robert martin madness if it is so but i hope you are mistaken i saw her answernothing could be clearer you saw her answeryou wrote her answer too emma this is your doing you persuaded her to refuse him and if i did which however i am far from allowing i should not feel that i had done wrong mr martin is a very respectable young man but i cannot admit him to be harriets equal and am rather surprized indeed that he should have ventured to address her by your account he does seem to have had some scruples it is a pity that they were ever got over not harriets equal exclaimed mr knightley loudly and warmly and with calmer asperity added a few moments afterwards no he is not her equal indeed for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation emma your infatuation about that girl blinds you what are harriet smiths claims either of birth nature or education to any connexion higher than robert martin she is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom with probably no settled provision at all and certainly no respectable relations she is known only as parlourboarder at a common school she is not a sensible girl nor a girl of any information she has been taught nothing useful and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself at her age she can have no experience and with her little wit is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her she is pretty and she is good tempered and that is all my only scruple in advising the match was on his account as being beneath his deserts and a bad connexion for him i felt that as to fortune in all probability he might do much better and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate he could not do worse but i could not reason so to a man in love and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her to her having that sort of disposition which in good hands like his might be easily led aright and turn out very well the advantage of the match i felt to be all on her side and had not the smallest doubt nor have i now that there would be a general cryout upon her extreme good luck even your satisfaction i made sure of it crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friends leaving highbury for the sake of her being settled so well i remember saying to myself even emma with all her partiality for harriet will think this a good match i cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of emma as to say any such thing what think a farmer and with all his sense and all his merit mr martin is nothing more a good match for my intimate friend not regret her leaving highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom i could never admit as an acquaintance of my own i wonder you should think it possible for me to have such feelings i assure you mine are very different i must think your statement by no means fair you are not just to harriets claims they would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself mr martin may be the richest of the two but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in societythe sphere in which she moves is much above hisit would be a degradation a degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance to be married to a respectable intelligent gentlemanfarmer as to the circumstances of her birth though in a legal sense she may be called nobody it will not hold in common sense she is not to pay for the offence of others by being held below the level of those with whom she is brought upthere can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a gentlemanand a gentleman of fortuneher allowance is very liberal nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or comfortthat she is a gentlemans daughter is indubitable to me that she associates with gentlemens daughters no one i apprehend will denyshe is superior to mr robert martin whoever might be her parents said mr knightley whoever may have had the charge of her it does not appear to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society after receiving a very indifferent education she is left in mrs goddards hands to shift as she canto move in short in mrs goddards line to have mrs goddards acquaintance her friends evidently thought this good enough for her and it was good enough she desired nothing better herself till you chose to turn her into a friend her mind had no distaste for her own set nor any ambition beyond it she was as happy as possible with the martins in the summer she had no sense of superiority then if she has it now you have given it you have been no friend to harriet smith emma robert martin would never have proceeded so far if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him i know him well he has too much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion and as to conceit he is the farthest from it of any man i know depend upon it he had encouragement it was most convenient to emma not to make a direct reply to this assertion she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject again you are a very warm friend to mr martin but as i said before are unjust to harriet harriets claims to marry well are not so contemptible as you represent them she is not a clever girl but she has better sense than you are aware of and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slightingly waiving that point however and supposing her to be as you describe her only pretty and goodnatured let me tell you that in the degree she possesses them they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general for she is in fact a beautiful girl and must be thought so by ninetynine people out of an hundred and till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed till they do fall in love with wellinformed minds instead of handsome faces a girl with such loveliness as harriet has a certainty of being admired and sought after of having the power of chusing from among many consequently a claim to be nice her goodnature too is not so very slight a claim comprehending as it does real thorough sweetness of temper and manner a very humble opinion of herself and a great readiness to be pleased with other people i am very much mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty and such temper the highest claims a woman could possess upon my word emma to hear you abusing the reason you have is almost enough to make me think so too better be without sense than misapply it as you do to be sure cried she playfully i know that is the feeling of you all i know that such a girl as harriet is exactly what every man delights inwhat at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment oh harriet may pick and chuse were you yourself ever to marry she is the very woman for you and is she at seventeen just entering into life just beginning to be known to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives nopray let her have time to look about her i have always thought it a very foolish intimacy said mr knightley presently though i have kept my thoughts to myself but i now perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for harriet you will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty and of what she has a claim to that in a little while nobody within her reach will be good enough for her vanity working on a weak head produces every sort of mischief nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high miss harriet smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast though she is a very pretty girl men of sense whatever you may chuse to say do not want silly wives men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurityand most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed let her marry robert martin and she is safe respectable and happy for ever but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune she may be a parlourboarder at mrs goddards all the rest of her lifeor at least for harriet smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other till she grow desperate and is glad to catch at the old writingmasters son we think so very differently on this point mr knightley that there can be no use in canvassing it we shall only be making each other more angry but as to my letting her marry robert martin it is impossible she has refused him and so decidedly i think as must prevent any second application she must abide by the evil of having refused him whatever it may be and as to the refusal itself i will not pretend to say that i might not influence her a little but i assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do his appearance is so much against him and his manner so bad that if she ever were disposed to favour him she is not now i can imagine that before she had seen any body superior she might tolerate him he was the brother of her friends and he took pains to please her and altogether having seen nobody better that must have been his great assistant she might not while she was at abbeymill find him disagreeable but the case is altered now she knows now what gentlemen are and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with harriet nonsense errant nonsense as ever was talked cried mr knightleyrobert martins manners have sense sincerity and goodhumour to recommend them and his mind has more true gentility than harriet smith could understand emma made no answer and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned but was really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone she did not repent what she had done she still thought herself a better judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general which made her dislike having it so loudly against her and to have him sitting just opposite to her in angry state was very disagreeable some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence with only one attempt on emmas side to talk of the weather but he made no answer he was thinking the result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words robert martin has no great lossif he can but think so and i hope it will not be long before he does your views for harriet are best known to yourself but as you make no secret of your love of matchmaking it is fair to suppose that views and plans and projects you haveand as a friend i shall just hint to you that if elton is the man i think it will be all labour in vain emma laughed and disclaimed he continued depend upon it elton will not do elton is a very good sort of man and a very respectable vicar of highbury but not at all likely to make an imprudent match he knows the value of a good income as well as any body elton may talk sentimentally but he will act rationally he is as well acquainted with his own claims as you can be with harriets he knows that he is a very handsome young man and a great favourite wherever he goes and from his general way of talking in unreserved moments when there are only men present i am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away i have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece i am very much obliged to you said emma laughing again if i had set my heart on mr eltons marrying harriet it would have been very kind to open my eyes but at present i only want to keep harriet to myself i have done with matchmaking indeed i could never hope to equal my own doings at randalls i shall leave off while i am well good morning to yousaid he rising and walking off abruptly he was very much vexed he felt the disappointment of the young man and was mortified to have been the means of promoting it by the sanction he had given and the part which he was persuaded emma had taken in the affair was provoking him exceedingly emma remained in a state of vexation too but there was more indistinctness in the causes of hers than in his she did not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her adversarys wrong as mr knightley he walked off in more complete selfapprobation than he left for her she was not so materially cast down however but that a little time and the return of harriet were very adequate restoratives harriets staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy the possibility of the young mans coming to mrs goddards that morning and meeting with harriet and pleading his own cause gave alarming ideas the dread of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness and when harriet appeared and in very good spirits and without having any such reason to give for her long absence she felt a satisfaction which settled her with her own mind and convinced her that let mr knightley think or say what he would she had done nothing which womans friendship and womans feelings would not justify he had frightened her a little about mr elton but when she considered that mr knightley could not have observed him as she had done neither with the interest nor she must be allowed to tell herself in spite of mr knightleys pretensions with the skill of such an observer on such a question as herself that he had spoken it hastily and in anger she was able to believe that he had rather said what he wished resentfully to be true than what he knew any thing about he certainly might have heard mr elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever done and mr elton might not be of an imprudent inconsiderate disposition as to money matters he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise to them but then mr knightley did not make due allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all interested motives mr knightley saw no such passion and of course thought nothing of its effects but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest and more than a reasonable becoming degree of prudence she was very sure did not belong to mr elton harriets cheerful look and manner established hers she came back not to think of mr martin but to talk of mr elton miss nash had been telling her something which she repeated immediately with great delight mr perry had been to mrs goddards to attend a sick child and miss nash had seen him and he had told miss nash that as he was coming back yesterday from clayton park he had met mr elton and found to his great surprize that mr elton was actually on his road to london and not meaning to return till the morrow though it was the whistclub night which he had been never known to miss before and mr perry had remonstrated with him about it and told him how shabby it was in him their best player to absent himself and tried very much to persuade him to put off his journey only one day but it would not do mr elton had been determined to go on and had said in a very particular way indeed that he was going on business which he would not put off for any inducement in the world and something about a very enviable commission and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious mr perry could not quite understand him but he was very sure there must be a lady in the case and he told him so and mr elton only looked very conscious and smiling and rode off in great spirits miss nash had told her all this and had talked a great deal more about mr elton and said looking so very significantly at her that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be but she only knew that any woman whom mr elton could prefer she should think the luckiest woman in the world for beyond a doubt mr elton had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness ix mr knightley might quarrel with her but emma could not quarrel with herself he was so much displeased that it was longer than usual before he came to hartfield again and when they did meet his grave looks shewed that she was not forgiven she was sorry but could not repent on the contrary her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days the picture elegantly framed came safely to hand soon after mr eltons return and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sittingroom he got up to look at it and sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he ought and as for harriets feelings they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted emma was soon perfectly satisfied of mr martins being no otherwise remembered than as he furnished a contrast with mr elton of the utmost advantage to the latter her views of improving her little friends mind by a great deal of useful reading and conversation had never yet led to more than a few first chapters and the intention of going on tomorrow it was much easier to chat than to study much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at harriets fortune than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts and the only literary pursuit which engaged harriet at present the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with into a thin quarto of hotpressed paper made up by her friend and ornamented with ciphers and trophies in this age of literature such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon miss nash headteacher at mrs goddards had written out at least three hundred and harriet who had taken the first hint of it from her hoped with miss woodhouses help to get a great many more emma assisted with her invention memory and taste and as harriet wrote a very pretty hand it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order in form as well as quantity mr woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in so many clever riddles as there used to be when he was younghe wondered he could not remember them but he hoped he should in time and it always ended in kitty a fair but frozen maid his good friend perry too whom he had spoken to on the subject did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind but he had desired perry to be upon the watch and as he went about so much something he thought might come from that quarter it was by no means his daughters wish that the intellects of highbury in general should be put under requisition mr elton was the only one whose assistance she asked he was invited to contribute any really good enigmas charades or conundrums that he might recollect and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections and at the same time as she could perceive most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass his lips they owed to him their two or three politest puzzles and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled and rather sentimentally recited that wellknown charade my first doth affliction denote which my second is destind to feel and my whole is the best antidote that affliction to soften and heal made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already why will not you write one yourself for us mr elton said she that is the only security for its freshness and nothing could be easier to you oh no he had never written hardly ever any thing of the kind in his life the stupidest fellow he was afraid not even miss woodhousehe stopt a momentor miss smith could inspire him the very next day however produced some proof of inspiration he called for a few moments just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing as he said a charade which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady the object of his admiration but which from his manner emma was immediately convinced must be his own i do not offer it for miss smiths collection said he being my friends i have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it the speech was more to emma than to harriet which emma could understand there was deep consciousness about him and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friends he was gone the next momentafter another moments pause take it said emma smiling and pushing the paper towards harrietit is for you take your own but harriet was in a tremor and could not touch it and emma never loth to be first was obliged to examine it herself to miss charade my first displays the wealth and pomp of kings lords of the earth their luxury and ease another view of man my second brings behold him there the monarch of the seas but ah united what reverse we have mans boasted power and freedom all are flown lord of the earth and sea he bends a slave and woman lovely woman reigns alone thy ready wit the word will soon supply may its approval beam in that soft eye she cast her eye over it pondered caught the meaning read it through again to be quite certain and quite mistress of the lines and then passing it to harriet sat happily smiling and saying to herself while harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope and dulness very well mr elton very well indeed i have read worse charades courtshipa very good hint i give you credit for it this is feeling your way this is saying very plainlypray miss smith give me leave to pay my addresses to you approve my charade and my intentions in the same glance may its approval beam in that soft eye harriet exactly soft is the very word for her eyeof all epithets the justest that could be given thy ready wit the word will soon supply humphharriets ready wit all the better a man must be very much in love indeed to describe her so ah mr knightley i wish you had the benefit of this i think this would convince you for once in your life you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken an excellent charade indeed and very much to the purpose things must come to a crisis soon now she was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length by the eagerness of harriets wondering questions what can it be miss woodhousewhat can it be i have not an ideai cannot guess it in the least what can it possibly be do try to find it out miss woodhouse do help me i never saw any thing so hard is it kingdom i wonder who the friend wasand who could be the young lady do you think it is a good one can it be woman and woman lovely woman reigns alone can it be neptune behold him there the monarch of the seas or a trident or a mermaid or a shark oh no shark is only one syllable it must be very clever or he would not have brought it oh miss woodhouse do you think we shall ever find it out mermaids and sharks nonsense my dear harriet what are you thinking of where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark give me the paper and listen for miss  read miss smith my first displays the wealth and pomp of kings lords of the earth their luxury and ease that is court another view of man my second brings behold him there the monarch of the seas that is shipplain as it can benow for the cream but ah united courtship you know what reverse we have mans boasted power and freedom all are flown lord of the earth and sea he bends a slave and woman lovely woman reigns alone a very proper complimentand then follows the application which i think my dear harriet you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending read it in comfort to yourself there can be no doubt of its being written for you and to you harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion she read the concluding lines and was all flutter and happiness she could not speak but she was not wanted to speak it was enough for her to feel emma spoke for her there is so pointed and so particular a meaning in this compliment said she that i cannot have a doubt as to mr eltons intentions you are his objectand you will soon receive the completest proof of it i thought it must be so i thought i could not be so deceived but now it is clear the state of his mind is as clear and decided as my wishes on the subject have been ever since i knew you yes harriet just so long have i been wanting the very circumstance to happen that has happened i could never tell whether an attachment between you and mr elton were most desirable or most natural its probability and its eligibility have really so equalled each other i am very happy i congratulate you my dear harriet with all my heart this is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating this is a connexion which offers nothing but good it will give you every thing that you wantconsideration independence a proper homeit will fix you in the centre of all your real friends close to hartfield and to me and confirm our intimacy for ever this harriet is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us dear miss woodhouseand dear miss woodhouse was all that harriet with many tender embraces could articulate at first but when they did arrive at something more like conversation it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw felt anticipated and remembered just as she ought mr eltons superiority had very ample acknowledgment whatever you say is always right cried harriet and therefore i suppose and believe and hope it must be so but otherwise i could not have imagined it it is so much beyond any thing i deserve mr elton who might marry any body there cannot be two opinions about him he is so very superior only think of those sweet versesto miss  dear me how clevercould it really be meant for me i cannot make a question or listen to a question about that it is a certainty receive it on my judgment it is a sort of prologue to the play a motto to the chapter and will be soon followed by matteroffact prose it is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected i am sure a month ago i had no more idea myselfthe strangest things do take place when miss smiths and mr eltons get acquaintedthey do indeedand really it is strange it is out of the common course that what is so evidently so palpably desirablewhat courts the prearrangement of other people should so immediately shape itself into the proper form you and mr elton are by situation called together you belong to one another by every circumstance of your respective homes your marrying will be equal to the match at randalls there does seem to be a something in the air of hartfield which gives love exactly the right direction and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow the course of true love never did run smooth a hartfield edition of shakespeare would have a long note on that passage that mr elton should really be in love with meme of all people who did not know him to speak to him at michaelmas and he the very handsomest man that ever was and a man that every body looks up to quite like mr knightley his company so sought after that every body says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it that he has more invitations than there are days in the week and so excellent in the church miss nash has put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to highbury dear me when i look back to the first time i saw him how little did i thinkthe two abbots and i ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by and miss nash came and scolded us away and staid to look through herself however she called me back presently and let me look too which was very goodnatured and how beautiful we thought he looked he was arminarm with mr cole this is an alliance which whoeverwhatever your friends may be must be agreeable to them provided at least they have common sense and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools if they are anxious to see you happily married here is a man whose amiable character gives every assurance of itif they wish to have you settled in the same country and circle which they have chosen to place you in here it will be accomplished and if their only object is that you should in the common phrase be well married here is the comfortable fortune the respectable establishment the rise in the world which must satisfy them yes very true how nicely you talk i love to hear you you understand every thing you and mr elton are one as clever as the other this charadeif i had studied a twelvemonth i could never have made any thing like it i thought he meant to try his skill by his manner of declining it yesterday i do think it is without exception the best charade i ever read i never read one more to the purpose certainly it is as long again as almost all we have had before i do not consider its length as particularly in its favour such things in general cannot be too short harriet was too intent on the lines to hear the most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind it is one thing said she presentlyher cheeks in a glowto have very good sense in a common way like every body else and if there is any thing to say to sit down and write a letter and say just what you must in a short way and another to write verses and charades like this emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of mr martins prose such sweet lines continued harrietthese two lastbut how shall i ever be able to return the paper or say i have found it outoh miss woodhouse what can we do about that leave it to me you do nothing he will be here this evening i dare say and then i will give it him back and some nonsense or other will pass between us and you shall not be committedyour soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming trust to me oh miss woodhouse what a pity that i must not write this beautiful charade into my book i am sure i have not got one half so good leave out the two last lines and there is no reason why you should not write it into your book oh but those two lines are the best of all grantedfor private enjoyment and for private enjoyment keep them they are not at all the less written you know because you divide them the couplet does not cease to be nor does its meaning change but take it away and all appropriation ceases and a very pretty gallant charade remains fit for any collection depend upon it he would not like to have his charade slighted much better than his passion a poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities or neither give me the book i will write it down and then there can be no possible reflection on you harriet submitted though her mind could hardly separate the parts so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of love it seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity i shall never let that book go out of my own hands said she very well replied emma a most natural feeling and the longer it lasts the better i shall be pleased but here is my father coming you will not object to my reading the charade to him it will be giving him so much pleasure he loves any thing of the sort and especially any thing that pays woman a compliment he has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us allyou must let me read it to him harriet looked grave my dear harriet you must not refine too much upon this charadeyou will betray your feelings improperly if you are too conscious and too quick and appear to affix more meaning or even quite all the meaning which may be affixed to it do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration if he had been anxious for secrecy he would not have left the paper while i was by but he rather pushed it towards me than towards you do not let us be too solemn on the business he has encouragement enough to proceed without our sighing out our souls over this charade oh noi hope i shall not be ridiculous about it do as you please mr woodhouse came in and very soon led to the subject again by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of well my dears how does your book go onhave you got any thing fresh yes papa we have something to read you something quite fresh a piece of paper was found on the table this morningdropt we suppose by a fairycontaining a very pretty charade and we have just copied it in she read it to him just as he liked to have any thing read slowly and distinctly and two or three times over with explanations of every part as she proceededand he was very much pleased and as she had foreseen especially struck with the complimentary conclusion aye thats very just indeed thats very properly said very true woman lovely woman it is such a pretty charade my dear that i can easily guess what fairy brought itnobody could have written so prettily but you emma emma only nodded and smiledafter a little thinking and a very tender sigh he added ah it is no difficulty to see who you take after your dear mother was so clever at all those things if i had but her memory but i can remember nothingnot even that particular riddle which you have heard me mention i can only recollect the first stanza and there are several kitty a fair but frozen maid kindled a flame i yet deplore the hoodwinkd boy i called to aid though of his near approach afraid so fatal to my suit before and that is all that i can recollect of itbut it is very clever all the way through but i think my dear you said you had got it yes papa it is written out in our second page we copied it from the elegant extracts it was garricks you know aye very truei wish i could recollect more of it kitty a fair but frozen maid the name makes me think of poor isabella for she was very near being christened catherine after her grandmama i hope we shall have her here next week have you thought my dear where you shall put herand what room there will be for the children oh yesshe will have her own room of course the room she always hasand there is the nursery for the childrenjust as usual you know why should there be any change i do not know my dearbut it is so long since she was herenot since last easter and then only for a few daysmr john knightleys being a lawyer is very inconvenientpoor isabellashe is sadly taken away from us alland how sorry she will be when she comes not to see miss taylor here she will not be surprized papa at least i do not know my dear i am sure i was very much surprized when i first heard she was going to be married we must ask mr and mrs weston to dine with us while isabella is here yes my dear if there is timebutin a very depressed toneshe is coming for only one week there will not be time for any thing it is unfortunate that they cannot stay longerbut it seems a case of necessity mr john knightley must be in town again on the 28th and we ought to be thankful papa that we are to have the whole of the time they can give to the country that two or three days are not to be taken out for the abbey mr knightley promises to give up his claim this christmasthough you know it is longer since they were with him than with us it would be very hard indeed my dear if poor isabella were to be anywhere but at hartfield mr woodhouse could never allow for mr knightleys claims on his brother or any bodys claims on isabella except his own he sat musing a little while and then said but i do not see why poor isabella should be obliged to go back so soon though he does i think emma i shall try and persuade her to stay longer with us she and the children might stay very well ah papathat is what you never have been able to accomplish and i do not think you ever will isabella cannot bear to stay behind her husband this was too true for contradiction unwelcome as it was mr woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh and as emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughters attachment to her husband she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother and sister are here i am sure she will be pleased with the children we are very proud of the children are not we papa i wonder which she will think the handsomest henry or john aye i wonder which she will poor little dears how glad they will be to come they are very fond of being at hartfield harriet i dare say they are sir i am sure i do not know who is not henry is a fine boy but john is very like his mama henry is the eldest he was named after me not after his father john the second is named after his father some people are surprized i believe that the eldest was not but isabella would have him called henry which i thought very pretty of her and he is a very clever boy indeed they are all remarkably clever and they have so many pretty ways they will come and stand by my chair and say grandpapa can you give me a bit of string and once henry asked me for a knife but i told him knives were only made for grandpapas i think their father is too rough with them very often he appears rough to you said emma because you are so very gentle yourself but if you could compare him with other papas you would not think him rough he wishes his boys to be active and hardy and if they misbehave can give them a sharp word now and then but he is an affectionate fathercertainly mr john knightley is an affectionate father the children are all fond of him and then their uncle comes in and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful way but they like it papa there is nothing they like so much it is such enjoyment to them that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns whichever began would never give way to the other well i cannot understand it that is the case with us all papa one half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other later in the morning and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four oclock dinner the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again harriet turned away but emma could receive him with the usual smile and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a pushof having thrown a die and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up his ostensible reason however was to ask whether mr woodhouses party could be made up in the evening without him or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at hartfield if he were every thing else must give way but otherwise his friend cole had been saying so much about his dining with himhad made such a point of it that he had promised him conditionally to come emma thanked him but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account her father was sure of his rubber he reurgedshe redeclined and he seemed then about to make his bow when taking the paper from the table she returned it oh here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us thank you for the sight of it we admired it so much that i have ventured to write it into miss smiths collection your friend will not take it amiss i hope of course i have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines mr elton certainly did not very well know what to say he looked rather doubtinglyrather confused said something about honourglanced at emma and at harriet and then seeing the book open on the table took it up and examined it very attentively with the view of passing off an awkward moment emma smilingly said you must make my apologies to your friend but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two he may be sure of every womans approbation while he writes with such gallantry i have no hesitation in saying replied mr elton though hesitating a good deal while he spoke i have no hesitation in sayingat least if my friend feels at all as i doi have not the smallest doubt that could he see his little effusion honoured as i see it looking at the book again and replacing it on the table he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life after this speech he was gone as soon as possible emma could not think it too soon for with all his good and agreeable qualities there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh she ran away to indulge the inclination leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to harriets share x though now the middle of december there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise and on the morrow emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family who lived a little way out of highbury their road to this detached cottage was down vicarage lane a lane leading at right angles from the broad though irregular main street of the place and as may be inferred containing the blessed abode of mr elton a few inferior dwellings were first to be passed and then about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the vicarage an old and not very good house almost as close to the road as it could be it had no advantage of situation but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor and such as it was there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyesemmas remark was there it is there go you and your riddlebook one of these daysharriets was oh what a sweet househow very beautifulthere are the yellow curtains that miss nash admires so much i do not often walk this way now said emma as they proceeded but then there will be an inducement and i shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges gates pools and pollards of this part of highbury harriet she found had never in her life been inside the vicarage and her curiosity to see it was so extreme that considering exteriors and probabilities emma could only class it as a proof of love with mr eltons seeing ready wit in her i wish we could contrive it said she but i cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going inno servant that i want to inquire about of his housekeeperno message from my father she pondered but could think of nothing after a mutual silence of some minutes harriet thus began again i do so wonder miss woodhouse that you should not be married or going to be married so charming as you are emma laughed and replied my being charming harriet is not quite enough to induce me to marry i must find other people charmingone other person at least and i am not only not going to be married at present but have very little intention of ever marrying at all ahso you say but i cannot believe it i must see somebody very superior to any one i have seen yet to be tempted mr elton you know recollecting herself is out of the question and i do not wish to see any such person i would rather not be tempted i cannot really change for the better if i were to marry i must expect to repent it dear meit is so odd to hear a woman talk so i have none of the usual inducements of women to marry were i to fall in love indeed it would be a different thing but i never have been in love it is not my way or my nature and i do not think i ever shall and without love i am sure i should be a fool to change such a situation as mine fortune i do not want employment i do not want consequence i do not want i believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husbands house as i am of hartfield and never never could i expect to be so truly beloved and important so always first and always right in any mans eyes as i am in my fathers but then to be an old maid at last like miss bates that is as formidable an image as you could present harriet and if i thought i should ever be like miss bates so sillyso satisfiedso smilingso prosingso undistinguishing and unfastidiousand so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me i would marry tomorrow but between us i am convinced there never can be any likeness except in being unmarried but still you will be an old maid and thats so dreadful never mind harriet i shall not be a poor old maid and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public a single woman with a very narrow income must be a ridiculous disagreeable old maid the proper sport of boys and girls but a single woman of good fortune is always respectable and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else and the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind and sour the temper those who can barely live and who live perforce in a very small and generally very inferior society may well be illiberal and cross this does not apply however to miss bates she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me but in general she is very much to the taste of every body though single and though poor poverty certainly has not contracted her mind i really believe if she had only a shilling in the world she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it and nobody is afraid of her that is a great charm dear me but what shall you do how shall you employ yourself when you grow old if i know myself harriet mine is an active busy mind with a great many independent resources and i do not perceive why i should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than oneandtwenty womans usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now or with no important variation if i draw less i shall read more if i give up music i shall take to carpetwork and as for objects of interest objects for the affections which is in truth the great point of inferiority the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in not marrying i shall be very well off with all the children of a sister i love so much to care about there will be enough of them in all probability to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need there will be enough for every hope and every fear and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder my nephews and niecesi shall often have a niece with me do you know miss batess niece that is i know you must have seen her a hundred timesbut are you acquainted oh yes we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to highbury by the bye that is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece heaven forbid at least that i should ever bore people half so much about all the knightleys together as she does about jane fairfax one is sick of the very name of jane fairfax every letter from her is read forty times over her compliments to all friends go round and round again and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother one hears of nothing else for a month i wish jane fairfax very well but she tires me to death they were now approaching the cottage and all idle topics were superseded emma was very compassionate and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness her counsel and her patience as from her purse she understood their ways could allow for their ignorance and their temptations had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little entered into their troubles with ready sympathy and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as goodwill in the present instance it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to harriet as they walked away these are the sights harriet to do one good how trifling they make every thing else appeari feel now as if i could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day and yet who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind very true said harriet poor creatures one can think of nothing else and really i do not think the impression will soon be over said emma as she crossed the low hedge and tottering footstep which ended the narrow slippery path through the cottage garden and brought them into the lane again i do not think it will stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place and recall the still greater within oh dear no said her companion they walked on the lane made a slight bend and when that bend was passed mr elton was immediately in sight and so near as to give emma time only to say farther ah harriet here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts well smiling i hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers it has done all that is truly important if we feel for the wretched enough to do all we can for them the rest is empty sympathy only distressing to ourselves harriet could just answer oh dear yes before the gentleman joined them the wants and sufferings of the poor family however were the first subject on meeting he had been going to call on them his visit he would now defer but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done mr elton then turned back to accompany them to fall in with each other on such an errand as this thought emma to meet in a charitable scheme this will bring a great increase of love on each side i should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration it must if i were not here i wish i were anywhere else anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath a little raised on one side of the lane leaving them together in the main road but she had not been there two minutes when she found that harriets habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too and that in short they would both be soon after her this would not do she immediately stopped under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her halfboot and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath begged them to have the goodness to walk on and she would follow in half a minute they did as they were desired and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot she had the comfort of farther delay in her power being overtaken by a child from the cottage setting out according to orders with her pitcher to fetch broth from hartfield to walk by the side of this child and talk to and question her was the most natural thing in the world or would have been the most natural had she been acting just then without design and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead without any obligation of waiting for her she gained on them however involuntarily the childs pace was quick and theirs rather slow and she was the more concerned at it from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them mr elton was speaking with animation harriet listening with a very pleased attention and emma having sent the child on was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more when they both looked around and she was obliged to join them mr elton was still talking still engaged in some interesting detail and emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterdays party at his friend coles and that she was come in herself for the stilton cheese the north wiltshire the butter the celery the beetroot and all the dessert this would soon have led to something better of course was her consoling reflection any thing interests between those who love and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart if i could but have kept longer away they now walked on together quietly till within view of the vicarage pales when a sudden resolution of at least getting harriet into the house made her again find something very much amiss about her boot and fall behind to arrange it once more she then broke the lace off short and dexterously throwing it into a ditch was presently obliged to entreat them to stop and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort part of my lace is gone said she and i do not know how i am to contrive i really am a most troublesome companion to you both but i hope i am not often so illequipped mr elton i must beg leave to stop at your house and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string or any thing just to keep my boot on mr elton looked all happiness at this proposition and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage the room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied and looking forwards behind it was another with which it immediately communicated the door between them was open and emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner she was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it but she fully intended that mr elton should close it it was not closed however it still remained ajar but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room for ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself it could be protracted no longer she was then obliged to be finished and make her appearance the lovers were standing together at one of the windows it had a most favourable aspect and for half a minute emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully but it would not do he had not come to the point he had been most agreeable most delightful he had told harriet that he had seen them go by and had purposely followed them other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt but nothing serious cautious very cautious thought emma he advances inch by inch and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure still however though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both and must be leading them forward to the great event xi mr elton must now be left to himself it was no longer in emmas power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures the coming of her sisters family was so very near at hand that first in anticipation and then in reality it became henceforth her prime object of interest and during the ten days of their stay at hartfield it was not to be expectedshe did not herself expectthat any thing beyond occasional fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers they might advance rapidly if they would however they must advance somehow or other whether they would or no she hardly wished to have more leisure for them there are people who the more you do for them the less they will do for themselves mr and mrs john knightley from having been longer than usual absent from surry were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest till this year every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between hartfield and donwell abbey but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to seabathing for the children and it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their surry connexions or seen at all by mr woodhouse who could not be induced to get so far as london even for poor isabellas sake and who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit he thought much of the evils of the journey for her and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way but his alarms were needless the sixteen miles being happily accomplished and mr and mrs john knightley their five children and a competent number of nurserymaids all reaching hartfield in safety the bustle and joy of such an arrival the many to be talked to welcomed encouraged and variously dispersed and disposed of produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause nor have endured much longer even for this but the ways of hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by mrs john knightley that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance all the eating and drinking and sleeping and playing which they could possibly wish for without the smallest delay the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them mrs john knightley was a pretty elegant little woman of gentle quiet manners and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate wrapt up in her family a devoted wife a doating mother and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that but for these higher ties a warmer love might have seemed impossible she could never see a fault in any of them she was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness and with this resemblance of her father she inherited also much of his constitution was delicate in her own health overcareful of that of her children had many fears and many nerves and was as fond of her own mr wingfield in town as her father could be of mr perry they were alike too in a general benevolence of temper and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance mr john knightley was a tall gentlemanlike and very clever man rising in his profession domestic and respectable in his private character but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing and capable of being sometimes out of humour he was not an illtempered man not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach but his temper was not his great perfection and indeed with such a worshipping wife it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased the extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his he had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted and he could sometimes act an ungracious or say a severe thing he was not a great favourite with his fair sisterinlaw nothing wrong in him escaped her she was quick in feeling the little injuries to isabella which isabella never felt herself perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to isabellas sister but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend without praise and without blindness but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into the want of respectful forbearance towards her father there he had not always the patience that could have been wished mr woodhouses peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally illbestowed it did not often happen for mr john knightley had really a great regard for his fatherinlaw and generally a strong sense of what was due to him but it was too often for emmas charity especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured though the offence came not the beginning however of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality they had not been long seated and composed when mr woodhouse with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh called his daughters attention to the sad change at hartfield since she had been there last ah my dear said he poor miss taylorit is a grievous business oh yes sir cried she with ready sympathy how you must miss her and dear emma toowhat a dreadful loss to you bothi have been so grieved for youi could not imagine how you could possibly do without herit is a sad change indeedbut i hope she is pretty well sir pretty well my deari hopepretty welli do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably mr john knightley here asked emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of randalls oh nonone in the least i never saw mrs weston better in my lifenever looking so well papa is only speaking his own regret very much to the honour of both was the handsome reply and do you see her sir tolerably often asked isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father mr woodhouse hesitatednot near so often my dear as i could wish oh papa we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married either in the morning or evening of every day excepting one have we seen either mr weston or mrs weston and generally both either at randalls or hereand as you may suppose isabella most frequently here they are very very kind in their visits mr weston is really as kind as herself papa if you speak in that melancholy way you will be giving isabella a false idea of us all every body must be aware that miss taylor must be missed but every body ought also to be assured that mr and mrs weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipatedwhich is the exact truth just as it should be said mr john knightley and just as i hoped it was from your letters her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy i have been always telling you my love that i had no idea of the change being so very material to hartfield as you apprehended and now you have emmas account i hope you will be satisfied why to be sure said mr woodhouseyes certainlyi cannot deny that mrs weston poor mrs weston does come and see us pretty oftenbut thenshe is always obliged to go away again it would be very hard upon mr weston if she did not papayou quite forget poor mr weston i think indeed said john knightley pleasantly that mr weston has some little claim you and i emma will venture to take the part of the poor husband i being a husband and you not being a wife the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force as for isabella she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the mr westons aside as much as she can me my love cried his wife hearing and understanding only in part are you talking about mei am sure nobody ought to be or can be a greater advocate for matrimony than i am and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving hartfield i should never have thought of miss taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world and as to slighting mr weston that excellent mr weston i think there is nothing he does not deserve i believe he is one of the very besttempered men that ever existed excepting yourself and your brother i do not know his equal for temper i shall never forget his flying henrys kite for him that very windy day last easterand ever since his particular kindness last september twelvemonth in writing that note at twelve oclock at night on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at cobham i have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existenceif any body can deserve him it must be miss taylor where is the young man said john knightley has he been here on this occasionor has he not he has not been here yet replied emma there was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage but it ended in nothing and i have not heard him mentioned lately but you should tell them of the letter my dear said her father he wrote a letter to poor mrs weston to congratulate her and a very proper handsome letter it was she shewed it to me i thought it very well done of him indeed whether it was his own idea you know one cannot tell he is but young and his uncle perhaps my dear papa he is threeandtwenty you forget how time passes threeandtwentyis he indeedwell i could not have thought itand he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother well time does fly indeedand my memory is very bad however it was an exceeding good pretty letter and gave mr and mrs weston a great deal of pleasure i remember it was written from weymouth and dated sept 28thand began my dear madam but i forget how it went on and it was signed f c weston churchilli remember that perfectly how very pleasing and proper of him cried the goodhearted mrs john knightley i have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man but how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father there is something so shocking in a childs being taken away from his parents and natural home i never could comprehend how mr weston could part with him to give up ones child i really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else nobody ever did think well of the churchills i fancy observed mr john knightley coolly but you need not imagine mr weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up henry or john mr weston is rather an easy cheerfultempered man than a man of strong feelings he takes things as he finds them and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other depending i suspect much more upon what is called society for his comforts that is upon the power of eating and drinking and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week than upon family affection or any thing that home affords emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on mr weston and had half a mind to take it up but she struggled and let it pass she would keep the peace if possible and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits the allsufficiency of home to himself whence resulted her brothers disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse and those to whom it was importantit had a high claim to forbearance xii mr knightley was to dine with themrather against the inclination of mr woodhouse who did not like that any one should share with him in isabellas first day emmas sense of right however had decided it and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother she had particular pleasure from the circumstance of the late disagreement between mr knightley and herself in procuring him the proper invitation she hoped they might now become friends again she thought it was time to make up makingup indeed would not do she certainly had not been in the wrong and he would never own that he had concession must be out of the question but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever quarrelled and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of friendship that when he came into the room she had one of the children with herthe youngest a nice little girl about eight months old who was now making her first visit to hartfield and very happy to be danced about in her aunts arms it did assist for though he began with grave looks and short questions he was soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity emma felt they were friends again and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction and then a little sauciness she could not help saying as he was admiring the baby what a comfort it is that we think alike about our nephews and nieces as to men and women our opinions are sometimes very different but with regard to these children i observe we never disagree if you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them as you are where these children are concerned we might always think alike to be sureour discordancies must always arise from my being in the wrong yes said he smilingand reason good i was sixteen years old when you were born a material difference then she repliedand no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives but does not the lapse of oneandtwenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer yesa good deal nearer but still not near enough to give me a chance of being right if we think differently i have still the advantage of you by sixteen years experience and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child come my dear emma let us be friends and say no more about it tell your aunt little emma that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances and that if she were not wrong before she is now thats true she criedvery true little emma grow up a better woman than your aunt be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited now mr knightley a word or two more and i have done as far as good intentions went we were both right and i must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong i only want to know that mr martin is not very very bitterly disappointed a man cannot be more so was his short full answer ahindeed i am very sorrycome shake hands with me this had just taken place and with great cordiality when john knightley made his appearance and how dye do george and john how are you succeeded in the true english style burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference the real attachment which would have led either of them if requisite to do every thing for the good of the other the evening was quiet and conversable as mr woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear isabella and the little party made two natural divisions on one side he and his daughter on the other the two mr knightleys their subjects totally distinct or very rarely mixingand emma only occasionally joining in one or the other the brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits but principally of those of the elder whose temper was by much the most communicative and who was always the greater talker as a magistrate he had generally some point of law to consult john about or at least some curious anecdote to give and as a farmer as keeping in hand the homefarm at donwell he had to tell what every field was to bear next year and to give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his life and whose attachments were strong the plan of a drain the change of a fence the felling of a tree and the destination of every acre for wheat turnips or spring corn was entered into with as much equality of interest by john as his cooler manners rendered possible and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness while they were thus comfortably occupied mr woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter my poor dear isabella said he fondly taking her hand and interrupting for a few moments her busy labours for some one of her five childrenhow long it is how terribly long since you were here and how tired you must be after your journey you must go to bed early my dearand i recommend a little gruel to you before you goyou and i will have a nice basin of gruel together my dear emma suppose we all have a little gruel emma could not suppose any such thing knowing as she did that both the mr knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herselfand two basins only were ordered after a little more discourse in praise of gruel with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body he proceeded to say with an air of grave reflection it was an awkward business my dear your spending the autumn at south end instead of coming here i never had much opinion of the sea air mr wingfield most strenuously recommended it siror we should not have gone he recommended it for all the children but particularly for the weakness in little bellas throatboth sea air and bathing ah my dear but perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good and as to myself i have been long perfectly convinced though perhaps i never told you so before that the sea is very rarely of use to any body i am sure it almost killed me once come come cried emma feeling this to be an unsafe subject i must beg you not to talk of the sea it makes me envious and miserablei who have never seen it south end is prohibited if you please my dear isabella i have not heard you make one inquiry about mr perry yet and he never forgets you oh good mr perryhow is he sir why pretty well but not quite well poor perry is bilious and he has not time to take care of himselfhe tells me he has not time to take care of himselfwhich is very sadbut he is always wanted all round the country i suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere but then there is not so clever a man any where and mrs perry and the children how are they do the children grow i have a great regard for mr perry i hope he will be calling soon he will be so pleased to see my little ones i hope he will be here tomorrow for i have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence and my dear whenever he comes you had better let him look at little bellas throat oh my dear sir her throat is so much better that i have hardly any uneasiness about it either bathing has been of the greatest service to her or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of mr wingfields which we have been applying at times ever since august it is not very likely my dear that bathing should have been of use to herand if i had known you were wanting an embrocation i would have spoken to you seem to me to have forgotten mrs and miss bates said emma i have not heard one inquiry after them oh the good batesesi am quite ashamed of myselfbut you mention them in most of your letters i hope they are quite well good old mrs batesi will call upon her tomorrow and take my childrenthey are always so pleased to see my childrenand that excellent miss batessuch thorough worthy peoplehow are they sir why pretty well my dear upon the whole but poor mrs bates had a bad cold about a month ago how sorry i am but colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn mr wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavyexcept when it has been quite an influenza that has been a good deal the case my dear but not to the degree you mention perry says that colds have been very general but not so heavy as he has very often known them in november perry does not call it altogether a sickly season no i do not know that mr wingfield considers it very sickly except ah my poor dear child the truth is that in london it is always a sickly season nobody is healthy in london nobody can be it is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there so far offand the air so bad no indeedwe are not at all in a bad air our part of london is very superior to most othersyou must not confound us with london in general my dear sir the neighbourhood of brunswick square is very different from almost all the rest we are so very airy i should be unwilling i own to live in any other part of the townthere is hardly any other that i could be satisfied to have my children in but we are so remarkably airymr wingfield thinks the vicinity of brunswick square decidedly the most favourable as to air ah my dear it is not like hartfield you make the best of itbut after you have been a week at hartfield you are all of you different creatures you do not look like the same now i cannot say that i think you are any of you looking well at present i am sorry to hear you say so sir but i assure you excepting those little nervous headaches and palpitations which i am never entirely free from anywhere i am quite well myself and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed it was only because they were a little more tired than usual from their journey and the happiness of coming i hope you will think better of their looks tomorrow for i assure you mr wingfield told me that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether in such good case i trust at least that you do not think mr knightley looking ill turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband middling my dear i cannot compliment you i think mr john knightley very far from looking well what is the matter sirdid you speak to me cried mr john knightley hearing his own name i am sorry to find my love that my father does not think you looking wellbut i hope it is only from being a little fatigued i could have wished however as you know that you had seen mr wingfield before you left home my dear isabellaexclaimed he hastilypray do not concern yourself about my looks be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children and let me look as i chuse i did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother cried emma about your friend mr grahams intending to have a bailiff from scotland to look after his new estate what will it answer will not the old prejudice be too strong and she talked in this way so long and successfully that when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister she had nothing worse to hear than isabellas kind inquiry after jane fairfax and jane fairfax though no great favourite with her in general she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising that sweet amiable jane fairfax said mrs john knightleyit is so long since i have seen her except now and then for a moment accidentally in town what happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt when she comes to visit them i always regret excessively on dear emmas account that she cannot be more at highbury but now their daughter is married i suppose colonel and mrs campbell will not be able to part with her at all she would be such a delightful companion for emma mr woodhouse agreed to it all but added our little friend harriet smith however is just such another pretty kind of young person you will like harriet emma could not have a better companion than harriet i am most happy to hear itbut only jane fairfax one knows to be so very accomplished and superiorand exactly emmas age this topic was discussed very happily and others succeeded of similar moment and passed away with similar harmony but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation the gruel came and supplied a great deal to be saidmuch praise and many commentsundoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution and pretty severe philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerablybut unfortunately among the failures which the daughter had to instance the most recent and therefore most prominent was in her own cook at south end a young woman hired for the time who never had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel thin but not too thin often as she had wished for and ordered it she had never been able to get any thing tolerable here was a dangerous opening ah said mr woodhouse shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concernthe ejaculation in emmas ear expressed ah there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to south end it does not bear talking of and for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel after an interval of some minutes however he began with i shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn instead of coming here but why should you be sorry siri assure you it did the children a great deal of good and moreover if you must go to the sea it had better not have been to south end south end is an unhealthy place perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon south end i know there is such an idea with many people but indeed it is quite a mistake sirwe all had our health perfectly well there never found the least inconvenience from the mud and mr wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy and i am sure he may be depended on for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly you should have gone to cromer my dear if you went anywhereperry was a week at cromer once and he holds it to be the best of all the seabathing places a fine open sea he says and very pure air and by what i understand you might have had lodgings there quite away from the seaa quarter of a mile offvery comfortable you should have consulted perry but my dear sir the difference of the journeyonly consider how great it would have beenan hundred miles perhaps instead of forty ah my dear as perry says where health is at stake nothing else should be considered and if one is to travel there is not much to chuse between forty miles and an hundredbetter not move at all better stay in london altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air this is just what perry said it seemed to him a very illjudged measure emmas attempts to stop her father had been vain and when he had reached such a point as this she could not wonder at her brotherinlaws breaking out mr perry said he in a voice of very strong displeasure would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for why does he make it any business of his to wonder at what i doat my taking my family to one part of the coast or anotheri may be allowed i hope the use of my judgment as well as mr perryi want his directions no more than his drugs he pausedand growing cooler in a moment added with only sarcastic dryness if mr perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty i should be as willing to prefer cromer to south end as he could himself true true cried mr knightley with most ready interpositionvery true thats a consideration indeedbut john as to what i was telling you of my idea of moving the path to langham of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows i cannot conceive any difficulty i should not attempt it if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the highbury people but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path the only way of proving it however will be to turn to our maps i shall see you at the abbey tomorrow morning i hope and then we will look them over and you shall give me your opinion mr woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend perry to whom he had in fact though unconsciously been attributing many of his own feelings and expressionsbut the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil and the immediate alertness of one brother and better recollections of the other prevented any renewal of it xiii there could hardly be a happier creature in the world than mrs john knightley in this short visit to hartfield going about every morning among her old acquaintance with her five children and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister she had nothing to wish otherwise but that the days did not pass so swiftly it was a delightful visitperfect in being much too short in general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings but one complete dinner engagement and out of the house too there was no avoiding though at christmas mr weston would take no denial they must all dine at randalls one dayeven mr woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the party how they were all to be conveyed he would have made a difficulty if he could but as his son and daughters carriage and horses were actually at hartfield he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head it hardly amounted to a doubt nor did it occupy emma long to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for harriet also harriet mr elton and mr knightley their own especial set were the only persons invited to meet themthe hours were to be early as well as the numbers few mr woodhouses habits and inclination being consulted in every thing the evening before this great event for it was a very great event that mr woodhouse should dine out on the 24th of december had been spent by harriet at hartfield and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold that but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by mrs goddard emma could not have allowed her to leave the house emma called on her the next day and found her doom already signed with regard to randalls she was very feverish and had a bad sore throat mrs goddard was full of care and affection mr perry was talked of and harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement though she could not speak of her loss without many tears emma sat with her as long as she could to attend her in mrs goddards unavoidable absences and raise her spirits by representing how much mr eltons would be depressed when he knew her state and left her at last tolerably comfortable in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit and of their all missing her very much she had not advanced many yards from mrs goddards door when she was met by mr elton himself evidently coming towards it and as they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalidof whom he on the rumour of considerable illness had been going to inquire that he might carry some report of her to hartfieldthey were overtaken by mr john knightley returning from the daily visit to donwell with his two eldest boys whose healthy glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for they joined company and proceeded together emma was just describing the nature of her friends complainta throat very much inflamed with a great deal of heat about her a quick low pulse c and she was sorry to find from mrs goddard that harriet was liable to very bad sorethroats and had often alarmed her with them mr elton looked all alarm on the occasion as he exclaimed a sorethroati hope not infectious i hope not of a putrid infectious sort has perry seen her indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend let me entreat you to run no risks why does not perry see her emma who was not really at all frightened herself tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of mrs goddards experience and care but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away which she would rather feed and assist than not she added soon afterwardsas if quite another subject it is so cold so very coldand looks and feels so very much like snow that if it were to any other place or with any other party i should really try not to go out todayand dissuade my father from venturing but as he has made up his mind and does not seem to feel the cold himself i do not like to interfere as i know it would be so great a disappointment to mr and mrs weston but upon my word mr elton in your case i should certainly excuse myself you appear to me a little hoarse already and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues tomorrow will bring i think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself tonight mr elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make which was exactly the case for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady and not liking to resist any advice of hers he had not really the least inclination to give up the visitbut emma too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially or see him with clear vision was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being very cold certainly very cold and walked on rejoicing in having extricated him from randalls and secured him the power of sending to inquire after harriet every hour of the evening you do quite right said shewe will make your apologies to mr and mrs weston but hardly had she so spoken when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage if the weather were mr eltons only objection and mr elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction it was a done thing mr elton was to go and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment never had his smile been stronger nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her well said she to herself this is most strangeafter i had got him off so well to chuse to go into company and leave harriet ill behindmost strange indeedbut there is i believe in many men especially single men such an inclinationsuch a passion for dining outa dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures their employments their dignities almost their duties that any thing gives way to itand this must be the case with mr elton a most valuable amiable pleasing young man undoubtedly and very much in love with harriet but still he cannot refuse an invitation he must dine out wherever he is asked what a strange thing love is he can see ready wit in harriet but will not dine alone for her soon afterwards mr elton quitted them and she could not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of naming harriet at parting in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call at mrs goddards for news of her fair friend the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again when he hoped to be able to give a better report and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour after a few minutes of entire silence between them john knightley began with i never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than mr elton it is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned with men he can be rational and unaffected but when he has ladies to please every feature works mr eltons manners are not perfect replied emma but where there is a wish to please one ought to overlook and one does overlook a great deal where a man does his best with only moderate powers he will have the advantage over negligent superiority there is such perfect goodtemper and goodwill in mr elton as one cannot but value yes said mr john knightley presently with some slyness he seems to have a great deal of goodwill towards you me she replied with a smile of astonishment are you imagining me to be mr eltons object such an imagination has crossed me i own emma and if it never occurred to you before you may as well take it into consideration now mr elton in love with mewhat an idea i do not say it is so but you will do well to consider whether it is so or not and to regulate your behaviour accordingly i think your manners to him encouraging i speak as a friend emma you had better look about you and ascertain what you do and what you mean to do i thank you but i assure you you are quite mistaken mr elton and i are very good friends and nothing more and she walked on amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant and in want of counsel he said no more mr woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit that in spite of the increasing coldness he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own carriage with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the others too full of the wonder of his own going and the pleasure it was to afford at randalls to see that it was cold and too well wrapt up to feel it the cold however was severe and by the time the second carriage was in motion a few flakes of snow were finding their way down and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour the preparing and the going abroad in such weather with the sacrifice of his children after dinner were evils were disagreeables at least which mr john knightley did not by any means like he anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his discontent a man said he must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside and encounter such a day as this for the sake of coming to see him he must think himself a most agreeable fellow i could not do such a thing it is the greatest absurdityactually snowing at this momentthe folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at homeand the folly of peoples not staying comfortably at home when they can if we were obliged to go out such an evening as this by any call of duty or business what a hardship we should deem itand here are we probably with rather thinner clothing than usual setting forward voluntarily without excuse in defiance of the voice of nature which tells man in every thing given to his view or his feelings to stay at home himself and keep all under shelter that he canhere are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another mans house with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday and may not be said and heard again tomorrow going in dismal weather to return probably in worsefour horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving to emulate the very true my love which must have been usually administered by his travelling companion but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at all she could not be complying she dreaded being quarrelsome her heroism reached only to silence she allowed him to talk and arranged the glasses and wrapped herself up without opening her lips they arrived the carriage turned the step was let down and mr elton spruce black and smiling was with them instantly emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject mr elton was all obligation and cheerfulness he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed that she began to think he must have received a different account of harriet from what had reached her she had sent while dressing and the answer had been much the samenot better my report from mrs goddards said she presently was not so pleasant as i had hopednot better was my answer his face lengthened immediately and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered oh noi am grieved to findi was on the point of telling you that when i called at mrs goddards door which i did the very last thing before i returned to dress i was told that miss smith was not better by no means better rather worse very much grieved and concernedi had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as i knew had been given her in the morning emma smiled and answeredmy visit was of use to the nervous part of her complaint i hope but not even i can charm away a sore throat it is a most severe cold indeed mr perry has been with her as you probably heard yesi imaginedthat isi did not he has been used to her in these complaints and i hope tomorrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report but it is impossible not to feel uneasiness such a sad loss to our party today dreadfulexactly so indeedshe will be missed every moment this was very proper the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable but it should have lasted longer emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment what an excellent device said he the use of a sheepskin for carriages how very comfortable they make itimpossible to feel cold with such precautions the contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentlemans carriage perfectly complete one is so fenced and guarded from the weather that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted weather becomes absolutely of no consequence it is a very cold afternoonbut in this carriage we know nothing of the matterha snows a little i see yes said john knightley and i think we shall have a good deal of it christmas weather observed mr elton quite seasonable and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday and prevent this days party which it might very possibly have done for mr woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground but now it is of no consequence this is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings at christmas every body invites their friends about them and people think little of even the worst weather i was snowed up at a friends house once for a week nothing could be pleasanter i went for only one night and could not get away till that very day sennight mr john knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure but said only coolly i cannot wish to be snowed up a week at randalls at another time emma might have been amused but she was too much astonished now at mr eltons spirits for other feelings harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party we are sure of excellent fires continued he and every thing in the greatest comfort charming people mr and mrs westonmrs weston indeed is much beyond praise and he is exactly what one values so hospitable and so fond of societyit will be a small party but where small parties are select they are perhaps the most agreeable of any mr westons diningroom does not accommodate more than ten comfortably and for my part i would rather under such circumstances fall short by two than exceed by two i think you will agree with me turning with a soft air to emma i think i shall certainly have your approbation though mr knightley perhaps from being used to the large parties of london may not quite enter into our feelings i know nothing of the large parties of london siri never dine with any body indeed in a tone of wonder and pity i had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery well sir the time must come when you will be paid for all this when you will have little labour and great enjoyment my first enjoyment replied john knightley as they passed through the sweepgate will be to find myself safe at hartfield again xiv some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into mrs westons drawingroommr elton must compose his joyous looks and mr john knightley disperse his illhumour mr elton must smile less and mr john knightley more to fit them for the placeemma only might be as nature prompted and shew herself just as happy as she was to her it was real enjoyment to be with the westons mr weston was a great favourite and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve as to his wife not any one to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood of being always interesting and always intelligible the little affairs arrangements perplexities and pleasures of her father and herself she could tell nothing of hartfield in which mrs weston had not a lively concern and half an hours uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends was one of the first gratifications of each this was a pleasure which perhaps the whole days visit might not afford which certainly did not belong to the present halfhour but the very sight of mrs weston her smile her touch her voice was grateful to emma and she determined to think as little as possible of mr eltons oddities or of any thing else unpleasant and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost the misfortune of harriets cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival mr woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it besides all the history of his own and isabellas coming and of emmas being to follow and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that james should come and see his daughter when the others appeared and mrs weston who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him was able to turn away and welcome her dear emma emmas project of forgetting mr elton for a while made her rather sorry to find when they had all taken their places that he was close to her the difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards harriet from her mind while he not only sat at her elbow but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion instead of forgetting him his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of can it really be as my brother imagined can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from harriet to meabsurd and insufferableyet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm would be so interested about her father and so delighted with mrs weston and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a wouldbe lover and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners for her own sake she could not be rude and for harriets in the hope that all would yet turn out right she was even positively civil but it was an effort especially as something was going on amongst the others in the most overpowering period of mr eltons nonsense which she particularly wished to listen to she heard enough to know that mr weston was giving some information about his son she heard the words my son and frank and my son repeated several times over and from a few other halfsyllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son but before she could quiet mr elton the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward now it so happened that in spite of emmas resolution of never marrying there was something in the name in the idea of mr frank churchill which always interested her she had frequently thoughtespecially since his fathers marriage with miss taylorthat if she were to marry he was the very person to suit her in age character and condition he seemed by this connexion between the families quite to belong to her she could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of that mr and mrs weston did think of it she was very strongly persuaded and though not meaning to be induced by him or by any body else to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for she had a great curiosity to see him a decided intention of finding him pleasant of being liked by him to a certain degree and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends imaginations with such sensations mr eltons civilities were dreadfully illtimed but she had the comfort of appearing very polite while feeling very crossand of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again or the substance of it from the openhearted mr westonso it provedfor when happily released from mr elton and seated by mr weston at dinner he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton to say to her we want only two more to be just the right number i should like to see two more hereyour pretty little friend miss smith and my sonand then i should say we were quite complete i believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawingroom that we are expecting frank i had a letter from him this morning and he will be with us within a fortnight emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure and fully assented to his proposition of mr frank churchill and miss smith making their party quite complete he has been wanting to come to us continued mr weston ever since september every letter has been full of it but he cannot command his own time he has those to please who must be pleased and who between ourselves are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices but now i have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in january what a very great pleasure it will be to you and mrs weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him that she must be almost as happy as yourself yes she would be but that she thinks there will be another putoff she does not depend upon his coming so much as i do but she does not know the parties so well as i do the case you see isbut this is quite between ourselves i did not mention a syllable of it in the other room there are secrets in all families you knowthe case is that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at enscombe in january and that franks coming depends upon their being put off if they are not put off he cannot stir but i know they will because it is a family that a certain lady of some consequence at enscombe has a particular dislike to and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years they always are put off when it comes to the point i have not the smallest doubt of the issue i am as confident of seeing frank here before the middle of january as i am of being here myself but your good friend there nodding towards the upper end of the table has so few vagaries herself and has been so little used to them at hartfield that she cannot calculate on their effects as i have been long in the practice of doing i am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case replied emma but am disposed to side with you mr weston if you think he will come i shall think so too for you know enscombe yesi have some right to that knowledge though i have never been at the place in my lifeshe is an odd womanbut i never allow myself to speak ill of her on franks account for i do believe her to be very fond of him i used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body except herself but she has always been kind to him in her wayallowing for little whims and caprices and expecting every thing to be as she likes and it is no small credit in my opinion to him that he should excite such an affection for though i would not say it to any body else she has no more heart than a stone to people in general and the devil of a temper emma liked the subject so well that she began upon it to mrs weston very soon after their moving into the drawingroom wishing her joyyet observing that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming mrs weston agreed to it but added that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of for i cannot depend upon his coming i cannot be so sanguine as mr weston i am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing mr weston i dare say has been telling you exactly how the matter stands yesit seems to depend upon nothing but the illhumour of mrs churchill which i imagine to be the most certain thing in the world my emma replied mrs weston smiling what is the certainty of caprice then turning to isabella who had not been attending beforeyou must know my dear mrs knightley that we are by no means so sure of seeing mr frank churchill in my opinion as his father thinks it depends entirely upon his aunts spirits and pleasure in short upon her temper to youto my two daughtersi may venture on the truth mrs churchill rules at enscombe and is a very oddtempered woman and his coming now depends upon her being willing to spare him oh mrs churchill every body knows mrs churchill replied isabella and i am sure i never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion to be constantly living with an illtempered person must be dreadful it is what we happily have never known any thing of but it must be a life of misery what a blessing that she never had any children poor little creatures how unhappy she would have made them emma wished she had been alone with mrs weston she should then have heard more mrs weston would speak to her with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with isabella and she really believed would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the churchills from her excepting those views on the young man of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge but at present there was nothing more to be said mr woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawingroom to be sitting long after dinner was a confinement that he could not endure neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable while he talked to isabella however emma found an opportunity of saying and so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain i am sorry for it the introduction must be unpleasant whenever it takes place and the sooner it could be over the better yes and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays even if this family the braithwaites are put off i am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us i cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side but i am sure there is a great wish on the churchills to keep him to themselves there is jealousy they are jealous even of his regard for his father in short i can feel no dependence on his coming and i wish mr weston were less sanguine he ought to come said emma if he could stay only a couple of days he ought to come and one can hardly conceive a young mans not having it in his power to do as much as that a young woman if she fall into bad hands may be teased and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with but one cannot comprehend a young mans being under such restraint as not to be able to spend a week with his father if he likes it one ought to be at enscombe and know the ways of the family before one decides upon what he can do replied mrs weston one ought to use the same caution perhaps in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family but enscombe i believe certainly must not be judged by general rules she is so very unreasonable and every thing gives way to her but she is so fond of the nephew he is so very great a favourite now according to my idea of mrs churchill it would be most natural that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband to whom she owes every thing while she exercises incessant caprice towards him she should frequently be governed by the nephew to whom she owes nothing at all my dearest emma do not pretend with your sweet temper to understand a bad one or to lay down rules for it you must let it go its own way i have no doubt of his having at times considerable influence but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand when it will be emma listened and then coolly said i shall not be satisfied unless he comes he may have a great deal of influence on some points continued mrs weston and on others very little and among those on which she is beyond his reach it is but too likely may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us xv mr woodhouse was soon ready for his tea and when he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home and it was as much as his three companions could do to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour before the other gentlemen appeared mr weston was chatty and convivial and no friend to early separations of any sort but at last the drawingroom party did receive an augmentation mr elton in very good spirits was one of the first to walk in mrs weston and emma were sitting together on a sofa he joined them immediately and with scarcely an invitation seated himself between them emma in good spirits too from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of mr frank churchill was willing to forget his late improprieties and be as well satisfied with him as before and on his making harriet his very first subject was ready to listen with most friendly smiles he professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friendher fair lovely amiable friend did she knowhad she heard any thing about her since their being at randallshe felt much anxietyhe must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably and in this style he talked on for some time very properly not much attending to any answer but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat and emma was quite in charity with him but at last there seemed a perverse turn it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account than on harrietsmore anxious that she should escape the infection than that there should be no infection in the complaint he began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sickchamber again for the presentto entreat her to promise him not to venture into such hazard till he had seen mr perry and learnt his opinion and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her she was vexed it did appearthere was no concealing itexactly like the pretence of being in love with her instead of harriet an inconstancy if real the most contemptible and abominable and she had difficulty in behaving with temper he turned to mrs weston to implore her assistance would not she give him her supportwould not she add her persuasions to his to induce miss woodhouse not to go to mrs goddards till it were certain that miss smiths disorder had no infection he could not be satisfied without a promisewould not she give him her influence in procuring it so scrupulous for others he continued and yet so careless for herself she wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home today and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself is this fair mrs westonjudge between us have not i some right to complain i am sure of your kind support and aid emma saw mrs westons surprize and felt that it must be great at an address which in words and manner was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her and as for herself she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose she could only give him a look but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses and then left the sofa removing to a seat by her sister and giving her all her attention she had not time to know how mr elton took the reproof so rapidly did another subject succeed for mr john knightley now came into the room from examining the weather and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow and of its still snowing fast with a strong drifting wind concluding with these words to mr woodhouse this will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements sir something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow poor mr woodhouse was silent from consternation but every body else had something to say every body was either surprized or not surprized and had some question to ask or some comfort to offer mrs weston and emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his soninlaw who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly i admired your resolution very much sir said he in venturing out in such weather for of course you saw there would be snow very soon every body must have seen the snow coming on i admired your spirit and i dare say we shall get home very well another hour or twos snow can hardly make the road impassable and we are two carriages if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand i dare say we shall be all safe at hartfield before midnight mr weston with triumph of a different sort was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time but had not said a word lest it should make mr woodhouse uncomfortable and be an excuse for his hurrying away as to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return that was a mere joke he was afraid they would find no difficulty he wished the road might be impassable that he might be able to keep them all at randalls and with the utmost goodwill was sure that accommodation might be found for every body calling on his wife to agree with him that with a little contrivance every body might be lodged which she hardly knew how to do from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house what is to be done my dear emmawhat is to be done was mr woodhouses first exclamation and all that he could say for some time to her he looked for comfort and her assurances of safety her representation of the excellence of the horses and of james and of their having so many friends about them revived him a little his eldest daughters alarm was equal to his own the horror of being blocked up at randalls while her children were at hartfield was full in her imagination and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous people but in a state that admitted no delay she was eager to have it settled that her father and emma should remain at randalls while she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them you had better order the carriage directly my love said she i dare say we shall be able to get along if we set off directly and if we do come to any thing very bad i can get out and walk i am not at all afraid i should not mind walking half the way i could change my shoes you know the moment i got home and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold indeed replied he then my dear isabella it is the most extraordinary sort of thing in the world for in general every thing does give you cold walk homeyou are prettily shod for walking home i dare say it will be bad enough for the horses isabella turned to mrs weston for her approbation of the plan mrs weston could only approve isabella then went to emma but emma could not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away and they were still discussing the point when mr knightley who had left the room immediately after his brothers first report of the snow came back again and told them that he had been out of doors to examine and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home whenever they liked it either now or an hour hence he had gone beyond the sweepsome way along the highbury roadthe snow was nowhere above half an inch deepin many places hardly enough to whiten the ground a very few flakes were falling at present but the clouds were parting and there was every appearance of its being soon over he had seen the coachmen and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend to isabella the relief of such tidings was very great and they were scarcely less acceptable to emma on her fathers account who was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at randalls he was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay and while the others were variously urging and recommending mr knightley and emma settled it in a few brief sentences thus your father will not be easy why do not you go i am ready if the others are shall i ring the bell yes do and the bell was rung and the carriages spoken for a few minutes more and emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own house to get sober and cool and the other recover his temper and happiness when this visit of hardship were over the carriage came and mr woodhouse always the first object on such occasions was carefully attended to his own by mr knightley and mr weston but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen and the discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for he was afraid they should have a very bad drive he was afraid poor isabella would not like it and there would be poor emma in the carriage behind he did not know what they had best do they must keep as much together as they could and james was talked to and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage isabella stept in after her father john knightley forgetting that he did not belong to their party stept in after his wife very naturally so that emma found on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by mr elton that the door was to be lawfully shut on them and that they were to have a têteàtête drive it would not have been the awkwardness of a moment it would have been rather a pleasure previous to the suspicions of this very day she could have talked to him of harriet and the threequarters of a mile would have seemed but one but now she would rather it had not happened she believed he had been drinking too much of mr westons good wine and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense to restrain him as much as might be by her own manners she was immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the night but scarcely had she begun scarcely had they passed the sweepgate and joined the other carriage than she found her subject cut upher hand seizedher attention demanded and mr elton actually making violent love to her availing himself of the precious opportunity declaring sentiments which must be already well known hopingfearingadoringready to die if she refused him but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect and in short very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible it really was so without scruplewithout apologywithout much apparent diffidence mr elton the lover of harriet was professing himself her lover she tried to stop him but vainly he would go on and say it all angry as she was the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak she felt that half this folly must be drunkenness and therefore could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour accordingly with a mixture of the serious and the playful which she hoped would best suit his half and half state she replied i am very much astonished mr elton this to me you forget yourselfyou take me for my friendany message to miss smith i shall be happy to deliver but no more of this to me if you please miss smithmessage to miss smithwhat could she possibly meanand he repeated her words with such assurance of accent such boastful pretence of amazement that she could not help replying with quickness mr elton this is the most extraordinary conduct and i can account for it only in one way you are not yourself or you could not speak either to me or of harriet in such a manner command yourself enough to say no more and i will endeavour to forget it but mr elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits not at all to confuse his intellects he perfectly knew his own meaning and having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious and slightly touched upon his respect for miss smith as her friendbut acknowledging his wonder that miss smith should be mentioned at allhe resumed the subject of his own passion and was very urgent for a favourable answer as she thought less of his inebriety she thought more of his inconstancy and presumption and with fewer struggles for politeness replied it is impossible for me to doubt any longer you have made yourself too clear mr elton my astonishment is much beyond any thing i can express after such behaviour as i have witnessed during the last month to miss smithsuch attentions as i have been in the daily habit of observingto be addressing me in this mannerthis is an unsteadiness of character indeed which i had not supposed possible believe me sir i am far very far from gratified in being the object of such professions good heaven cried mr elton what can be the meaning of thismiss smithi never thought of miss smith in the whole course of my existencenever paid her any attentions but as your friend never cared whether she were dead or alive but as your friend if she has fancied otherwise her own wishes have misled her and i am very sorryextremely sorrybut miss smith indeedoh miss woodhouse who can think of miss smith when miss woodhouse is near no upon my honour there is no unsteadiness of character i have thought only of you i protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one else every thing that i have said or done for many weeks past has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself you cannot really seriously doubt it noin an accent meant to be insinuatingi am sure you have seen and understood me it would be impossible to say what emma felt on hearing thiswhich of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost she was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for mr eltons sanguine state of mind he tried to take her hand again as he joyously exclaimed charming miss woodhouse allow me to interpret this interesting silence it confesses that you have long understood me no sir cried emma it confesses no such thing so far from having long understood you i have been in a most complete error with respect to your views till this moment as to myself i am very sorry that you should have been giving way to any feelingsnothing could be farther from my wishesyour attachment to my friend harrietyour pursuit of her pursuit it appeared gave me great pleasure and i have been very earnestly wishing you success but had i supposed that she were not your attraction to hartfield i should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent am i to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to miss smiththat you have never thought seriously of her never madam cried he affronted in his turn never i assure you i think seriously of miss smithmiss smith is a very good sort of girl and i should be happy to see her respectably settled i wish her extremely well and no doubt there are men who might not object toevery body has their level but as for myself i am not i think quite so much at a loss i need not so totally despair of an equal alliance as to be addressing myself to miss smithno madam my visits to hartfield have been for yourself only and the encouragement i received encouragementi give you encouragementsir you have been entirely mistaken in supposing it i have seen you only as the admirer of my friend in no other light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance i am exceedingly sorry but it is well that the mistake ends where it does had the same behaviour continued miss smith might have been led into a misconception of your views not being aware probably any more than myself of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of but as it is the disappointment is single and i trust will not be lasting i have no thoughts of matrimony at present he was too angry to say another word her manner too decided to invite supplication and in this state of swelling resentment and mutually deep mortification they had to continue together a few minutes longer for the fears of mr woodhouse had confined them to a footpace if there had not been so much anger there would have been desperate awkwardness but their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment without knowing when the carriage turned into vicarage lane or when it stopped they found themselves all at once at the door of his house and he was out before another syllable passedemma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night the compliment was just returned coldly and proudly and under indescribable irritation of spirits she was then conveyed to hartfield there she was welcomed with the utmost delight by her father who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from vicarage laneturning a corner which he could never bear to think ofand in strange handsa mere common coachmanno james and there it seemed as if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well for mr john knightley ashamed of his illhumour was now all kindness and attention and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father as to seemif not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruelperfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome and the day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party except herselfbut her mind had never been in such perturbation and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection xvi the hair was curled and the maid sent away and emma sat down to think and be miserableit was a wretched business indeedsuch an overthrow of every thing she had been wishing forsuch a development of every thing most unwelcomesuch a blow for harrietthat was the worst of all every part of it brought pain and humiliation of some sort or other but compared with the evil to harriet all was light and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistakenmore in errormore disgraced by misjudgment than she actually was could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself if i had not persuaded harriet into liking the man i could have borne any thing he might have doubled his presumption to mebut poor harriet how she could have been so deceivedhe protested that he had never thought seriously of harrietnever she looked back as well as she could but it was all confusion she had taken up the idea she supposed and made every thing bend to it his manners however must have been unmarked wavering dubious or she could not have been so misled the picturehow eager he had been about the pictureand the charadeand an hundred other circumstanceshow clearly they had seemed to point at harriet to be sure the charade with its ready witbut then the soft eyesin fact it suited neither it was a jumble without taste or truth who could have seen through such thickheaded nonsense certainly she had often especially of late thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant but it had passed as his way as a mere error of judgment of knowledge of taste as one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society that with all the gentleness of his address true elegance was sometimes wanting but till this very day she had never for an instant suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as harriets friend to mr john knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject for the first start of its possibility there was no denying that those brothers had penetration she remembered what mr knightley had once said to her about mr elton the caution he had given the conviction he had professed that mr elton would never marry indiscreetly and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself it was dreadfully mortifying but mr elton was proving himself in many respects the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him proud assuming conceited very full of his own claims and little concerned about the feelings of others contrary to the usual course of things mr eltons wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion his professions and his proposals did him no service she thought nothing of his attachment and was insulted by his hopes he wanted to marry well and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her pretended to be in love but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for there had been no real affection either in his language or manners sighs and fine words had been given in abundance but she could hardly devise any set of expressions or fancy any tone of voice less allied with real love she need not trouble herself to pity him he only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself and if miss woodhouse of hartfield the heiress of thirty thousand pounds were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied he would soon try for miss somebody else with twenty or with ten butthat he should talk of encouragement should consider her as aware of his views accepting his attentions meaning in short to marry himshould suppose himself her equal in connexion or mindlook down upon her friend so well understanding the gradations of rank below him and be so blind to what rose above as to fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing herit was most provoking perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent and all the elegancies of mind the very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior he must know that the woodhouses had been settled for several generations at hartfield the younger branch of a very ancient familyand that the eltons were nobody the landed property of hartfield certainly was inconsiderable being but a sort of notch in the donwell abbey estate to which all the rest of highbury belonged but their fortune from other sources was such as to make them scarcely secondary to donwell abbey itself in every other kind of consequence and the woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which mr elton had first entered not two years ago to make his way as he could without any alliances but in trade or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civilitybut he had fancied her in love with him that evidently must have been his dependence and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging so full of courtesy and attention as supposing her real motive unperceived might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy like mr elton in fancying himself a very decided favourite if she had so misinterpreted his feelings she had little right to wonder that he with selfinterest to blind him should have mistaken hers the first error and the worst lay at her door it was foolish it was wrong to take so active a part in bringing any two people together it was adventuring too far assuming too much making light of what ought to be serious a trick of what ought to be simple she was quite concerned and ashamed and resolved to do such things no more here have i said she actually talked poor harriet into being very much attached to this man she might never have thought of him but for me and certainly never would have thought of him with hope if i had not assured her of his attachment for she is as modest and humble as i used to think him oh that i had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young martin there i was quite right that was well done of me but there i should have stopped and left the rest to time and chance i was introducing her into good company and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having i ought not to have attempted more but now poor girl her peace is cut up for some time i have been but half a friend to her and if she were not to feel this disappointment so very much i am sure i have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for herwilliam coxeoh no i could not endure william coxea pert young lawyer she stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse and then resumed a more serious more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been and might be and must be the distressing explanation she had to make to harriet and all that poor harriet would be suffering with the awkwardness of future meetings the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance of subduing feelings concealing resentment and avoiding eclat were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully to youth and natural cheerfulness like emmas though under temporary gloom at night the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits the youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy and of powerful operation and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her and to depend on getting tolerably out of it it was a great consolation that mr elton should not be really in love with her or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint himthat harriets nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentiveand that there could be no necessity for any bodys knowing what had passed except the three principals and especially for her fathers being given a moments uneasiness about it these were very cheering thoughts and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present the weather was most favourable for her though christmas day she could not go to church mr woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas the ground covered with snow and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise every morning beginning in rain or snow and every evening setting in to freeze she was for many days a most honourable prisoner no intercourse with harriet possible but by note no church for her on sunday any more than on christmas day and no need to find excuses for mr eltons absenting himself it was weather which might fairly confine every body at home and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house too wise to stir out and to hear him say to mr knightley whom no weather could keep entirely from them ah mr knightley why do not you stay at home like poor mr elton these days of confinement would have been but for her private perplexities remarkably comfortable as such seclusion exactly suited her brother whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions and he had besides so thoroughly cleared off his illhumour at randalls that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at hartfield he was always agreeable and obliging and speaking pleasantly of every body but with all the hopes of cheerfulness and all the present comfort of delay there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with harriet as made it impossible for emma to be ever perfectly at ease xvii mr and mrs john knightley were not detained long at hartfield the weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move and mr woodhouse having as usual tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children was obliged to see the whole party set off and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor isabellawhich poor isabella passing her life with those she doated on full of their merits blind to their faults and always innocently busy might have been a model of right feminine happiness the evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from mr elton to mr woodhouse a long civil ceremonious note to say with mr eltons best compliments that he was proposing to leave highbury the following morning in his way to bath where in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends he had engaged to spend a few weeks and very much regretted the impossibility he was under from various circumstances of weather and business of taking a personal leave of mr woodhouse of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful senseand had mr woodhouse any commands should be happy to attend to them emma was most agreeably surprizedmr eltons absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired she admired him for contriving it though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father from which she was so pointedly excluded she had not even a share in his opening complimentsher name was not mentionedand there was so striking a change in all this and such an illjudged solemnity of leavetaking in his graceful acknowledgments as she thought at first could not escape her fathers suspicion it did howeverher father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey and his fears that mr elton might never get safely to the end of it and saw nothing extraordinary in his language it was a very useful note for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening mr woodhouse talked over his alarms and emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude she now resolved to keep harriet no longer in the dark she had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentlemans return she went to mrs goddards accordingly the very next day to undergo the necessary penance of communication and a severe one it wasshe had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feedingto appear in the ungracious character of the one preferredand acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and misjudging in all her ideas on one subject all her observations all her convictions all her prophecies for the last six weeks the confession completely renewed her first shameand the sight of harriets tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again harriet bore the intelligence very wellblaming nobodyand in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost and all that was amiable all that ought to be attaching seemed on harriets side not her own harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of the affection of such a man as mr elton would have been too great a distinctionshe never could have deserved himand nobody but so partial and kind a friend as miss woodhouse would have thought it possible her tears fell abundantlybut her grief was so truly artless that no dignity could have made it more respectable in emmas eyesand she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understandingreally for the time convinced that harriet was the superior creature of the twoand that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do it was rather too late in the day to set about being simpleminded and ignorant but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet and repressing imagination all the rest of her life her second duty now inferior only to her fathers claims was to promote harriets comfort and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by matchmaking she got her to hartfield and shewed her the most unvarying kindness striving to occupy and amuse her and by books and conversation to drive mr elton from her thoughts time she knew must be allowed for this being thoroughly done and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to mr elton in particular but it seemed to her reasonable that at harriets age and with the entire extinction of all hope such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of mr eltons return as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them harriet did think him all perfection and maintained the nonexistence of any body equal to him in person or goodnessand did in truth prove herself more resolutely in love than emma had foreseen but yet it appeared to her so natural so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort unrequited that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal force if mr elton on his return made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do she could not imagine harriets persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him their being fixed so absolutely fixed in the same place was bad for each for all three not one of them had the power of removal or of effecting any material change of society they must encounter each other and make the best of it harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at mrs goddards mr elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school and it must be at hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth where the wound had been given there must the cure be found if anywhere and emma felt that till she saw her in the way of cure there could be no true peace for herself xviii mr frank churchill did not come when the time proposed drew near mrs westons fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse for the present he could not be spared to his very great mortification and regret but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to randalls at no distant period mrs weston was exceedingly disappointedmuch more disappointed in fact than her husband though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober but a sanguine temper though for ever expecting more good than occurs does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression it soon flies over the present failure and begins to hope again for half an hour mr weston was surprized and sorry but then he began to perceive that franks coming two or three months later would be a much better plan better time of year better weather and that he would be able without any doubt to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner these feelings rapidly restored his comfort while mrs weston of a more apprehensive disposition foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer suffered a great deal more herself emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about mr frank churchills not coming except as a disappointment at randalls the acquaintance at present had no charm for her she wanted rather to be quiet and out of temptation but still as it was desirable that she should appear in general like her usual self she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance and enter as warmly into mr and mrs westons disappointment as might naturally belong to their friendship she was the first to announce it to mr knightley and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary or being acting a part perhaps rather more at the conduct of the churchills in keeping him away she then proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt of the advantage of such an addition to their confined society in surry the pleasure of looking at somebody new the galaday to highbury entire which the sight of him would have made and ending with reflections on the churchills again found herself directly involved in a disagreement with mr knightley and to her great amusement perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion and making use of mrs westons arguments against herself the churchills are very likely in fault said mr knightley coolly but i dare say he might come if he would i do not know why you should say so he wishes exceedingly to come but his uncle and aunt will not spare him i cannot believe that he has not the power of coming if he made a point of it it is too unlikely for me to believe it without proof how odd you are what has mr frank churchill done to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature i am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature in suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his connexions and to care very little for any thing but his own pleasure from living with those who have always set him the example of it it is a great deal more natural than one could wish that a young man brought up by those who are proud luxurious and selfish should be proud luxurious and selfish too if frank churchill had wanted to see his father he would have contrived it between september and january a man at his agewhat is hethree or fourandtwentycannot be without the means of doing as much as that it is impossible thats easily said and easily felt by you who have always been your own master you are the worst judge in the world mr knightley of the difficulties of dependence you do not know what it is to have tempers to manage it is not to be conceived that a man of three or fourandtwenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount he cannot want moneyhe cannot want leisure we know on the contrary that he has so much of both that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom we hear of him for ever at some wateringplace or other a little while ago he was at weymouth this proves that he can leave the churchills yes sometimes he can and those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while whenever there is any temptation of pleasure it is very unfair to judge of any bodys conduct without an intimate knowledge of their situation nobody who has not been in the interior of a family can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be we ought to be acquainted with enscombe and with mrs churchills temper before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do he may at times be able to do a great deal more than he can at others there is one thing emma which a man can always do if he chuses and that is his duty not by manoeuvring and finessing but by vigour and resolution it is frank churchills duty to pay this attention to his father he knows it to be so by his promises and messages but if he wished to do it it might be done a man who felt rightly would say at once simply and resolutely to mrs churchillevery sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience but i must go and see my father immediately i know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion i shall therefore set off tomorrowif he would say so to her at once in the tone of decision becoming a man there would be no opposition made to his going no said emma laughing but perhaps there might be some made to his coming back again such language for a young man entirely dependent to usenobody but you mr knightley would imagine it possible but you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own mr frank churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt who have brought him up and are to provide for himstanding up in the middle of the room i suppose and speaking as loud as he couldhow can you imagine such conduct practicable depend upon it emma a sensible man would find no difficulty in it he would feel himself in the right and the declarationmade of course as a man of sense would make it in a proper mannerwould do him more good raise him higher fix his interest stronger with the people he depended on than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do respect would be added to affection they would feel that they could trust him that the nephew who had done rightly by his father would do rightly by them for they know as well as he does as well as all the world must know that he ought to pay this visit to his father and while meanly exerting their power to delay it are in their hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims respect for right conduct is felt by every body if he would act in this sort of manner on principle consistently regularly their little minds would bend to his i rather doubt that you are very fond of bending little minds but where little minds belong to rich people in authority i think they have a knack of swelling out till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones i can imagine that if you as you are mr knightley were to be transported and placed all at once in mr frank churchills situation you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for him and it might have a very good effect the churchills might not have a word to say in return but then you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through to him who has it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought he may have as strong a sense of what would be right as you can have without being so equal under particular circumstances to act up to it then it would not be so strong a sense if it failed to produce equal exertion it could not be an equal conviction oh the difference of situation and habit i wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing those whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his life our amiable young man is a very weak young man if this be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of others it ought to have been a habit with him by this time of following his duty instead of consulting expediency i can allow for the fears of the child but not of the man as he became rational he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority he ought to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father had he begun as he ought there would have been no difficulty now we shall never agree about him cried emma but that is nothing extraordinary i have not the least idea of his being a weak young man i feel sure that he is not mr weston would not be blind to folly though in his own son but he is very likely to have a more yielding complying mild disposition than would suit your notions of mans perfection i dare say he has and though it may cut him off from some advantages it will secure him many others yes all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it he can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter full of professions and falsehoods and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his fathers having any right to complain his letters disgust me your feelings are singular they seem to satisfy every body else i suspect they do not satisfy mrs weston they hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings standing in a mothers place but without a mothers affection to blind her it is on her account that attention to randalls is doubly due and she must doubly feel the omission had she been a person of consequence herself he would have come i dare say and it would not have signified whether he did or no can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself no emma your amiable young man can be amiable only in french not in english he may be very amiable have very good manners and be very agreeable but he can have no english delicacy towards the feelings of other people nothing really amiable about him you seem determined to think ill of him menot at all replied mr knightley rather displeased i do not want to think ill of him i should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man but i hear of none except what are merely personal that he is wellgrown and goodlooking with smooth plausible manners well if he have nothing else to recommend him he will be a treasure at highbury we do not often look upon fine young men wellbred and agreeable we must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain cannot you imagine mr knightley what a sensation his coming will produce there will be but one subject throughout the parishes of donwell and highbury but one interestone object of curiosity it will be all mr frank churchill we shall think and speak of nobody else you will excuse my being so much overpowered if i find him conversable i shall be glad of his acquaintance but if he is only a chattering coxcomb he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts my idea of him is that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of every body and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable to you he will talk of farming to me of drawing or music and so on to every body having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead or take the lead just as propriety may require and to speak extremely well on each that is my idea of him and mine said mr knightley warmly is that if he turn out any thing like it he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing what at threeandtwenty to be the king of his companythe great manthe practised politician who is to read every bodys character and make every bodys talents conduce to the display of his own superiority to be dispensing his flatteries around that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself my dear emma your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point i will say no more about him cried emma you turn every thing to evil we are both prejudiced you against i for him and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here prejudiced i am not prejudiced but i am very much and without being at all ashamed of it my love for mr and mrs weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour he is a person i never think of from one months end to another said mr knightley with a degree of vexation which made emma immediately talk of something else though she could not comprehend why he should be angry to take a dislike to a young man only because he appeared to be of a different disposition from himself was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him for with all the high opinion of himself which she had often laid to his charge she had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of another volume ii i emma and harriet had been walking together one morning and in emmas opinion had been talking enough of mr elton for that day she could not think that harriets solace or her own sins required more and she was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they returnedbut it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter and receiving no other answer than a very plaintivemr elton is so good to the poor she found something else must be done they were just approaching the house where lived mrs and miss bates she determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers there was always sufficient reason for such an attention mrs and miss bates loved to be called on and she knew she was considered by the very few who presumed ever to see imperfection in her as rather negligent in that respect and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts she had had many a hint from mr knightley and some from her own heart as to her deficiencybut none were equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very disagreeablea waste of timetiresome womenand all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the secondrate and thirdrate of highbury who were calling on them for ever and therefore she seldom went near them but now she made the sudden resolution of not passing their door without going inobserving as she proposed it to harriet that as well as she could calculate they were just now quite safe from any letter from jane fairfax the house belonged to people in business mrs and miss bates occupied the drawingroom floor and there in the very moderatesized apartment which was every thing to them the visitors were most cordially and even gratefully welcomed the quiet neat old lady who with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner wanting even to give up her place to miss woodhouse and her more active talking daughter almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness thanks for their visit solicitude for their shoes anxious inquiries after mr woodhouses health cheerful communications about her mothers and sweetcake from the beaufetmrs cole had just been there just called in for ten minutes and had been so good as to sit an hour with them and she had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much and therefore she hoped miss woodhouse and miss smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too the mention of the coles was sure to be followed by that of mr elton there was intimacy between them and mr cole had heard from mr elton since his going away emma knew what was coming they must have the letter over again and settle how long he had been gone and how much he was engaged in company and what a favourite he was wherever he went and how full the master of the ceremonies ball had been and she went through it very well with all the interest and all the commendation that could be requisite and always putting forward to prevent harriets being obliged to say a word this she had been prepared for when she entered the house but meant having once talked him handsomely over to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic and to wander at large amongst all the mistresses and misses of highbury and their cardparties she had not been prepared to have jane fairfax succeed mr elton but he was actually hurried off by miss bates she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the coles to usher in a letter from her niece oh yesmr elton i understandcertainly as to dancingmrs cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at bath wasmrs cole was so kind as to sit some time with us talking of jane for as soon as she came in she began inquiring after her jane is so very great a favourite there whenever she is with us mrs cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough and i must say that jane deserves it as much as any body can and so she began inquiring after her directly saying i know you cannot have heard from jane lately because it is not her time for writing and when i immediately said but indeed we have we had a letter this very morning i do not know that i ever saw any body more surprized have you upon your honour said she well that is quite unexpected do let me hear what she says emmas politeness was at hand directly to say with smiling interest have you heard from miss fairfax so lately i am extremely happy i hope she is well thank you you are so kind replied the happily deceived aunt while eagerly hunting for the letteroh here it is i was sure it could not be far off but i had put my huswife upon it you see without being aware and so it was quite hid but i had it in my hand so very lately that i was almost sure it must be on the table i was reading it to mrs cole and since she went away i was reading it again to my mother for it is such a pleasure to hera letter from janethat she can never hear it often enough so i knew it could not be far off and here it is only just under my huswifeand since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she saysbut first of all i really must in justice to jane apologise for her writing so short a letteronly two pages you seehardly twoand in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half my mother often wonders that i can make it out so well she often says when the letter is first opened well hetty now i think you will be put to it to make out all that checkerworkdont you maamand then i tell her i am sure she would contrive to make it out herself if she had nobody to do it for herevery word of iti am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word and indeed though my mothers eyes are not so good as they were she can see amazingly well still thank god with the help of spectacles it is such a blessing my mothers are really very good indeed jane often says when she is here i am sure grandmama you must have had very strong eyes to see as you doand so much fine work as you have done tooi only wish my eyes may last me as well all this spoken extremely fast obliged miss bates to stop for breath and emma said something very civil about the excellence of miss fairfaxs handwriting you are extremely kind replied miss bates highly gratified you who are such a judge and write so beautifully yourself i am sure there is nobodys praise that could give us so much pleasure as miss woodhouses my mother does not hear she is a little deaf you know maam addressing her do you hear what miss woodhouse is so obliging to say about janes handwriting and emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it she was pondering in the meanwhile upon the possibility without seeming very rude of making her escape from jane fairfaxs letter and had almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse when miss bates turned to her again and seized her attention my mothers deafness is very trifling you seejust nothing at all by only raising my voice and saying any thing two or three times over she is sure to hear but then she is used to my voice but it is very remarkable that she should always hear jane better than she does me jane speaks so distinct however she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than she was two years ago which is saying a great deal at my mothers time of lifeand it really is full two years you know since she was here we never were so long without seeing her before and as i was telling mrs cole we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now are you expecting miss fairfax here soon oh yes next week indeedthat must be a very great pleasure thank you you are very kind yes next week every body is so surprized and every body says the same obliging things i am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at highbury as they can be to see her yes friday or saturday she cannot say which because colonel campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days so very good of them to send her the whole way but they always do you know oh yes friday or saturday next that is what she writes about that is the reason of her writing out of rule as we call it for in the common course we should not have heard from her before next tuesday or wednesday yes so i imagined i was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing any thing of miss fairfax today so obliging of you no we should not have heard if it had not been for this particular circumstance of her being to come here so soon my mother is so delightedfor she is to be three months with us at least three months she says so positively as i am going to have the pleasure of reading to you the case is you see that the campbells are going to ireland mrs dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly they had not intended to go over till the summer but she is so impatient to see them againfor till she married last october she was never away from them so much as a week which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms i was going to say but however different countries and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her motheror her father i declare i do not know which it was but we shall see presently in janes letterwrote in mr dixons name as well as her own to press their coming over directly and they would give them the meeting in dublin and take them back to their country seat balycraig a beautiful place i fancy jane has heard a great deal of its beauty from mr dixon i meani do not know that she ever heard about it from any body else but it was very natural you know that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his addressesand as jane used to be very often walking out with themfor colonel and mrs campbell were very particular about their daughters not walking out often with only mr dixon for which i do not at all blame them of course she heard every thing he might be telling miss campbell about his own home in ireland and i think she wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of the place views that he had taken himself he is a most amiable charming young man i believe jane was quite longing to go to ireland from his account of things at this moment an ingenious and animating suspicion entering emmas brain with regard to jane fairfax this charming mr dixon and the not going to ireland she said with the insidious design of farther discovery you must feel it very fortunate that miss fairfax should be allowed to come to you at such a time considering the very particular friendship between her and mrs dixon you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying colonel and mrs campbell very true very true indeed the very thing that we have always been rather afraid of for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance from us for months togethernot able to come if any thing was to happen but you see every thing turns out for the best they want her mr and mrs dixon excessively to come over with colonel and mrs campbell quite depend upon it nothing can be more kind or pressing than their joint invitation jane says as you will hear presently mr dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention he is a most charming young man ever since the service he rendered jane at weymouth when they were out in that party on the water and she by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails would have been dashed into the sea at once and actually was all but gone if he had not with the greatest presence of mind caught hold of her habit i can never think of it without tremblingbut ever since we had the history of that day i have been so fond of mr dixon but in spite of all her friends urgency and her own wish of seeing ireland miss fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and mrs bates yesentirely her own doing entirely her own choice and colonel and mrs campbell think she does quite right just what they should recommend and indeed they particularly wish her to try her native air as she has not been quite so well as usual lately i am concerned to hear of it i think they judge wisely but mrs dixon must be very much disappointed mrs dixon i understand has no remarkable degree of personal beauty is not by any means to be compared with miss fairfax oh no you are very obliging to say such thingsbut certainly not there is no comparison between them miss campbell always was absolutely plainbut extremely elegant and amiable yes that of course jane caught a bad cold poor thing so long ago as the 7th of november as i am going to read to you and has never been well since a long time is not it for a cold to hang upon her she never mentioned it before because she would not alarm us just like her so consideratebut however she is so far from well that her kind friends the campbells think she had better come home and try an air that always agrees with her and they have no doubt that three or four months at highbury will entirely cure herand it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here than go to ireland if she is unwell nobody could nurse her as we should do it appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world and so she is to come to us next friday or saturday and the campbells leave town in their way to holyhead the monday followingas you will find from janes letter so suddenyou may guess dear miss woodhouse what a flurry it has thrown me in if it was not for the drawback of her illnessbut i am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin and looking very poorly i must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me as to that i always make a point of reading janes letters through to myself first before i read them aloud to my mother you know for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her jane desired me to do it so i always do and so i began today with my usual caution but no sooner did i come to the mention of her being unwell than i burst out quite frightened with bless me poor jane is illwhich my mother being on the watch heard distinctly and was sadly alarmed at however when i read on i found it was not near so bad as i had fancied at first and i make so light of it now to her that she does not think much about it but i cannot imagine how i could be so off my guard if jane does not get well soon we will call in mr perry the expense shall not be thought of and though he is so liberal and so fond of jane that i dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance we could not suffer it to be so you know he has a wife and family to maintain and is not to be giving away his time well now i have just given you a hint of what jane writes about we will turn to her letter and i am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than i can tell it for her i am afraid we must be running away said emma glancing at harriet and beginning to risemy father will be expecting us i had no intention i thought i had no power of staying more than five minutes when i first entered the house i merely called because i would not pass the door without inquiring after mrs bates but i have been so pleasantly detained now however we must wish you and mrs bates good morning and not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded she regained the streethappy in this that though much had been forced on her against her will though she had in fact heard the whole substance of jane fairfaxs letter she had been able to escape the letter itself ii jane fairfax was an orphan the only child of mrs batess youngest daughter the marriage of lieut fairfax of the regiment of infantry and miss jane bates had had its day of fame and pleasure hope and interest but nothing now remained of it save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroadof his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwardsand this girl by birth she belonged to highbury and when at three years old on losing her mother she became the property the charge the consolation the foundling of her grandmother and aunt there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there of her being taught only what very limited means could command and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person good understanding and warmhearted wellmeaning relations but the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny this was colonel campbell who had very highly regarded fairfax as an excellent officer and most deserving young man and farther had been indebted to him for such attentions during a severe campfever as he believed had saved his life these were claims which he did not learn to overlook though some years passed away from the death of poor fairfax before his own return to england put any thing in his power when he did return he sought out the child and took notice of her he was a married man with only one living child a girl about janes age and jane became their guest paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all and before she was nine years old his daughters great fondness for her and his own wish of being a real friend united to produce an offer from colonel campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education it was accepted and from that period jane had belonged to colonel campbells family and had lived with them entirely only visiting her grandmother from time to time the plan was that she should be brought up for educating others the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence impossible to provide for her otherwise was out of colonel campbells power for though his income by pay and appointments was handsome his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughters but by giving her an education he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter such was jane fairfaxs history she had fallen into good hands known nothing but kindness from the campbells and been given an excellent education living constantly with rightminded and wellinformed people her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture and colonel campbells residence being in london every lighter talent had been done full justice to by the attendance of firstrate masters her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do and at eighteen or nineteen she was as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children fully competent to the office of instruction herself but she was too much beloved to be parted with neither father nor mother could promote and the daughter could not endure it the evil day was put off it was easy to decide that she was still too young and jane remained with them sharing as another daughter in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society and a judicious mixture of home and amusement with only the drawback of the future the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over the affection of the whole family the warm attachment of miss campbell in particular was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of janes decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements that nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents they continued together with unabated regard however till the marriage of miss campbell who by that chance that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs giving attraction to what is moderate rather than to what is superior engaged the affections of mr dixon a young man rich and agreeable almost as soon as they were acquainted and was eligibly and happily settled while jane fairfax had yet her bread to earn this event had very lately taken place too lately for any thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for beginning she had long resolved that oneandtwenty should be the period with the fortitude of a devoted novitiate she had resolved at oneandtwenty to complete the sacrifice and retire from all the pleasures of life of rational intercourse equal society peace and hope to penance and mortification for ever the good sense of colonel and mrs campbell could not oppose such a resolution though their feelings did as long as they lived no exertions would be necessary their home might be hers for ever and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly but this would be selfishnesswhat must be at last had better be soon perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished still however affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment she had never been quite well since the time of their daughters marriage and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength they must forbid her engaging in duties which so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits seemed under the most favourable circumstances to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort with regard to her not accompanying them to ireland her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth though there might be some truths not told it was her own choice to give the time of their absence to highbury to spend perhaps her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear and the campbells whatever might be their motive or motives whether single or double or treble gave the arrangement their ready sanction and said that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air for the recovery of her health than on any thing else certain it was that she was to come and that highbury instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised itmr frank churchillmust put up for the present with jane fairfax who could bring only the freshness of a two years absence emma was sorryto have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long monthsto be always doing more than she wished and less than she ought why she did not like jane fairfax might be a difficult question to answer mr knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman which she wanted to be thought herself and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time there were moments of selfexamination in which her conscience could not quite acquit her but she could never get acquainted with her she did not know how it was but there was such coldness and reservesuch apparent indifference whether she pleased or notand then her aunt was such an eternal talkerand she was made such a fuss with by every bodyand it had been always imagined that they were to be so intimatebecause their ages were the same every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other these were her reasonsshe had no better it was a dislike so little justevery imputed fault was so magnified by fancy that she never saw jane fairfax the first time after any considerable absence without feeling that she had injured her and now when the due visit was paid on her arrival after a two years interval she was particularly struck with the very appearance and manners which for those two whole years she had been depreciating jane fairfax was very elegant remarkably elegant and she had herself the highest value for elegance her height was pretty just such as almost every body would think tall and nobody could think very tall her figure particularly graceful her size a most becoming medium between fat and thin though a slight appearance of illhealth seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two emma could not but feel all this and then her faceher featuresthere was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered it was not regular but it was very pleasing beauty her eyes a deep grey with dark eyelashes and eyebrows had never been denied their praise but the skin which she had been used to cavil at as wanting colour had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom it was a style of beauty of which elegance was the reigning character and as such she must in honour by all her principles admire itelegance which whether of person or of mind she saw so little in highbury there not to be vulgar was distinction and merit in short she sat during the first visit looking at jane fairfax with twofold complacency the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice and was determining that she would dislike her no longer when she took in her history indeed her situation as well as her beauty when she considered what all this elegance was destined to what she was going to sink from how she was going to live it seemed impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect especially if to every wellknown particular entitling her to interest were added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to mr dixon which she had so naturally started to herself in that case nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced mr dixons affections from his wife or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first if it were love it might be simple single successless love on her side alone she might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison while a sharer of his conversation with her friend and from the best the purest of motives might now be denying herself this visit to ireland and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty upon the whole emma left her with such softened charitable feelings as made her look around in walking home and lament that highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her these were charming feelingsbut not lasting before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for jane fairfax or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors than saying to mr knightley she certainly is handsome she is better than handsome jane had spent an evening at hartfield with her grandmother and aunt and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state former provocations reappeared the aunt was as tiresome as ever more tiresome because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast and how small a slice of mutton for dinner as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself and janes offences rose again they had music emma was obliged to play and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour an air of greatness meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance she was besides which was the worst of all so cold so cautious there was no getting at her real opinion wrapt up in a cloak of politeness she seemed determined to hazard nothing she was disgustingly was suspiciously reserved if any thing could be more where all was most she was more reserved on the subject of weymouth and the dixons than any thing she seemed bent on giving no real insight into mr dixons character or her own value for his company or opinion of the suitableness of the match it was all general approbation and smoothness nothing delineated or distinguished it did her no service however her caution was thrown away emma saw its artifice and returned to her first surmises there probably was something more to conceal than her own preference mr dixon perhaps had been very near changing one friend for the other or been fixed only to miss campbell for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds the like reserve prevailed on other topics she and mr frank churchill had been at weymouth at the same time it was known that they were a little acquainted but not a syllable of real information could emma procure as to what he truly was was he handsomeshe believed he was reckoned a very fine young man was he agreeablehe was generally thought so did he appear a sensible young man a young man of informationat a wateringplace or in a common london acquaintance it was difficult to decide on such points manners were all that could be safely judged of under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of mr churchill she believed every body found his manners pleasing emma could not forgive her iii emma could not forgive herbut as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by mr knightley who had been of the party and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side he was expressing the next morning being at hartfield again on business with mr woodhouse his approbation of the whole not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to emma he had been used to think her unjust to jane and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement a very pleasant evening he began as soon as mr woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary told that he understood and the papers swept awayparticularly pleasant you and miss fairfax gave us some very good music i do not know a more luxurious state sir than sitting at ones ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation i am sure miss fairfax must have found the evening pleasant emma you left nothing undone i was glad you made her play so much for having no instrument at her grandmothers it must have been a real indulgence i am happy you approved said emma smiling but i hope i am not often deficient in what is due to guests at hartfield no my dear said her father instantly that i am sure you are not there is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are if any thing you are too attentive the muffin last nightif it had been handed round once i think it would have been enough no said mr knightley nearly at the same time you are not often deficient not often deficient either in manner or comprehension i think you understand me therefore an arch look expressedi understand you well enough but she said only miss fairfax is reserved i always told you she wasa little but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome all that has its foundation in diffidence what arises from discretion must be honoured you think her diffident i do not see it my dear emma said he moving from his chair into one close by her you are not going to tell me i hope that you had not a pleasant evening oh no i was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions and amused to think how little information i obtained i am disappointed was his only answer i hope every body had a pleasant evening said mr woodhouse in his quiet way i had once i felt the fire rather too much but then i moved back my chair a little a very little and it did not disturb me miss bates was very chatty and goodhumoured as she always is though she speaks rather too quick however she is very agreeable and mrs bates too in a different way i like old friends and miss jane fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady a very pretty and a very wellbehaved young lady indeed she must have found the evening agreeable mr knightley because she had emma true sir and emma because she had miss fairfax emma saw his anxiety and wishing to appease it at least for the present said and with a sincerity which no one could question she is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep ones eyes from i am always watching her to admire and i do pity her from my heart mr knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express and before he could make any reply mr woodhouse whose thoughts were on the batess said it is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined a great pity indeed and i have often wishedbut it is so little one can venture to dosmall trifling presents of any thing uncommonnow we have killed a porker and emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg it is very small and delicatehartfield pork is not like any other porkbut still it is porkand my dear emma unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks nicely fried as ours are fried without the smallest grease and not roast it for no stomach can bear roast porki think we had better send the legdo not you think so my dear my dear papa i sent the whole hindquarter i knew you would wish it there will be the leg to be salted you know which is so very nice and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like thats right my dear very right i had not thought of it before but that is the best way they must not oversalt the leg and then if it is not oversalted and if it is very thoroughly boiled just as serle boils ours and eaten very moderately of with a boiled turnip and a little carrot or parsnip i do not consider it unwholesome emma said mr knightley presently i have a piece of news for you you like newsand i heard an article in my way hither that i think will interest you news oh yes i always like news what is itwhy do you smile sowhere did you hear itat randalls he had time only to say no not at randalls i have not been near randalls when the door was thrown open and miss bates and miss fairfax walked into the room full of thanks and full of news miss bates knew not which to give quickest mr knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him oh my dear sir how are you this morning my dear miss woodhousei come quite overpowered such a beautiful hindquarter of pork you are too bountiful have you heard the news mr elton is going to be married emma had not had time even to think of mr elton and she was so completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start and a little blush at the sound there is my newsi thought it would interest you said mr knightley with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had passed between them but where could you hear it cried miss bates where could you possibly hear it mr knightley for it is not five minutes since i received mrs coles noteno it cannot be more than fiveor at least tenfor i had got my bonnet and spencer on just ready to come outi was only gone down to speak to patty again about the porkjane was standing in the passagewere not you janefor my mother was so afraid that we had not any saltingpan large enough so i said i would go down and see and jane said shall i go down instead for i think you have a little cold and patty has been washing the kitchenoh my dear said iwell and just then came the note a miss hawkinsthats all i know a miss hawkins of bath but mr knightley how could you possibly have heard it for the very moment mr cole told mrs cole of it she sat down and wrote to me a miss hawkins i was with mr cole on business an hour and a half ago he had just read eltons letter as i was shewn in and handed it to me directly well that is quitei suppose there never was a piece of news more generally interesting my dear sir you really are too bountiful my mother desires her very best compliments and regards and a thousand thanks and says you really quite oppress her we consider our hartfield pork replied mr woodhouseindeed it certainly is so very superior to all other pork that emma and i cannot have a greater pleasure than oh my dear sir as my mother says our friends are only too good to us if ever there were people who without having great wealth themselves had every thing they could wish for i am sure it is us we may well say that our lot is cast in a goodly heritage well mr knightley and so you actually saw the letter well it was shortmerely to announcebut cheerful exulting of course here was a sly glance at emma he had been so fortunate as toi forget the precise wordsone has no business to remember them the information was as you state that he was going to be married to a miss hawkins by his style i should imagine it just settled mr elton going to be married said emma as soon as she could speak he will have every bodys wishes for his happiness he is very young to settle was mr woodhouses observation he had better not be in a hurry he seemed to me very well off as he was we were always glad to see him at hartfield a new neighbour for us all miss woodhouse said miss bates joyfully my mother is so pleasedshe says she cannot bear to have the poor old vicarage without a mistress this is great news indeed jane you have never seen mr eltonno wonder that you have such a curiosity to see him janes curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to occupy her noi have never seen mr elton she replied starting on this appeal is heis he a tall man who shall answer that question cried emma my father would say yes mr knightley no and miss bates and i that he is just the happy medium when you have been here a little longer miss fairfax you will understand that mr elton is the standard of perfection in highbury both in person and mind very true miss woodhouse so she will he is the very best young manbut my dear jane if you remember i told you yesterday he was precisely the height of mr perry miss hawkinsi dare say an excellent young woman his extreme attention to my motherwanting her to sit in the vicarage pew that she might hear the better for my mother is a little deaf you knowit is not much but she does not hear quite quick jane says that colonel campbell is a little deaf he fancied bathing might be good for itthe warm bathbut she says it did him no lasting benefit colonel campbell you know is quite our angel and mr dixon seems a very charming young man quite worthy of him it is such a happiness when good people get togetherand they always do now here will be mr elton and miss hawkins and there are the coles such very good people and the perrysi suppose there never was a happier or a better couple than mr and mrs perry i say sir turning to mr woodhouse i think there are few places with such society as highbury i always say we are quite blessed in our neighboursmy dear sir if there is one thing my mother loves better than another it is porka roast loin of pork as to who or what miss hawkins is or how long he has been acquainted with her said emma nothing i suppose can be known one feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance he has been gone only four weeks nobody had any information to give and after a few more wonderings emma said you are silent miss fairfaxbut i hope you mean to take an interest in this news you who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on these subjects who must have been so deep in the business on miss campbells accountwe shall not excuse your being indifferent about mr elton and miss hawkins when i have seen mr elton replied jane i dare say i shall be interestedbut i believe it requires that with me and as it is some months since miss campbell married the impression may be a little worn off yes he has been gone just four weeks as you observe miss woodhouse said miss bates four weeks yesterdaya miss hawkinswell i had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts not that i evermrs cole once whispered to mebut i immediately said no mr elton is a most worthy young manbutin short i do not think i am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries i do not pretend to it what is before me i see at the same time nobody could wonder if mr elton should have aspiredmiss woodhouse lets me chatter on so goodhumouredly she knows i would not offend for the world how does miss smith do she seems quite recovered now have you heard from mrs john knightley lately oh those dear little children jane do you know i always fancy mr dixon like mr john knightley i mean in persontall and with that sort of lookand not very talkative quite wrong my dear aunt there is no likeness at all very odd but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand one takes up a notion and runs away with it mr dixon you say is not strictly speaking handsome handsome oh nofar from itcertainly plain i told you he was plain my dear you said that miss campbell would not allow him to be plain and that you yourself oh as for me my judgment is worth nothing where i have a regard i always think a person welllooking but i gave what i believed the general opinion when i called him plain well my dear jane i believe we must be running away the weather does not look well and grandmama will be uneasy you are too obliging my dear miss woodhouse but we really must take leave this has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed i shall just go round by mrs coles but i shall not stop three minutes and jane you had better go home directlyi would not have you out in a showerwe think she is the better for highbury already thank you we do indeed i shall not attempt calling on mrs goddard for i really do not think she cares for any thing but boiled pork when we dress the leg it will be another thing good morning to you my dear sir oh mr knightley is coming too well that is so veryi am sure if jane is tired you will be so kind as to give her your armmr elton and miss hawkinsgood morning to you emma alone with her father had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marryand to marry strangers tooand the other half she could give to her own view of the subject it was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news as proving that mr elton could not have suffered long but she was sorry for harriet harriet must feel itand all that she could hope was by giving the first information herself to save her from hearing it abruptly from others it was now about the time that she was likely to call if she were to meet miss bates in her wayand upon its beginning to rain emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at mrs goddards and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation the shower was heavy but short and it had not been over five minutes when in came harriet with just the heated agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give and the oh miss woodhouse what do you think has happened which instantly burst forth had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation as the blow was given emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening and harriet unchecked ran eagerly through what she had to tell she had set out from mrs goddards half an hour agoshe had been afraid it would rainshe had been afraid it would pour down every momentbut she thought she might get to hartfield firstshe had hurried on as fast as possible but then as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her she thought she would just step in and see how it went on and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there soon after she came out it began to rain and she did not know what to do so she ran on directly as fast as she could and took shelter at fordsfords was the principal woollendraper linendraper and haberdashers shop united the shop first in size and fashion in the placeand so there she had set without an idea of any thing in the world full ten minutes perhapswhen all of a sudden who should come into be sure it was so very oddbut they always dealt at fordswho should come in but elizabeth martin and her brotherdear miss woodhouse only think i thought i should have fainted i did not know what to do i was sitting near the doorelizabeth saw me directly but he did not he was busy with the umbrella i am sure she saw me but she looked away directly and took no notice and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop and i kept sitting near the dooroh dear i was so miserable i am sure i must have been as white as my gown i could not go away you know because of the rain but i did so wish myself anywhere in the world but thereoh dear miss woodhousewell at last i fancy he looked round and saw me for instead of going on with her buyings they began whispering to one another i am sure they were talking of me and i could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to medo you think he was miss woodhousefor presently she came forwardcame quite up to me and asked me how i did and seemed ready to shake hands if i would she did not do any of it in the same way that she used i could see she was altered but however she seemed to try to be very friendly and we shook hands and stood talking some time but i know no more what i saidi was in such a tremblei remember she said she was sorry we never met now which i thought almost too kind dear miss woodhouse i was absolutely miserable by that time it was beginning to hold up and i was determined that nothing should stop me from getting awayand thenonly thinki found he was coming up towards me tooslowly you know and as if he did not quite know what to do and so he came and spoke and i answeredand i stood for a minute feeling dreadfully you know one cant tell how and then i took courage and said it did not rain and i must go and so off i set and i had not got three yards from the door when he came after me only to say if i was going to hartfield he thought i had much better go round by mr coles stables for i should find the near way quite floated by this rain oh dear i thought it would have been the death of me so i said i was very much obliged to him you know i could not do less and then he went back to elizabeth and i came round by the stablesi believe i didbut i hardly knew where i was or any thing about it oh miss woodhouse i would rather done any thing than have it happen and yet you know there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly and elizabeth too oh miss woodhouse do talk to me and make me comfortable again very sincerely did emma wish to do so but it was not immediately in her power she was obliged to stop and think she was not thoroughly comfortable herself the young mans conduct and his sisters seemed the result of real feeling and she could not but pity them as harriet described it there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour but she had believed them to be wellmeaning worthy people before and what difference did this make in the evils of the connexion it was folly to be disturbed by it of course he must be sorry to lose herthey must be all sorry ambition as well as love had probably been mortified they might all have hoped to rise by harriets acquaintance and besides what was the value of harriets descriptionso easily pleasedso little discerningwhat signified her praise she exerted herself and did try to make her comfortable by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle and quite unworthy of being dwelt on it might be distressing for the moment said she but you seem to have behaved extremely well and it is overand may nevercan never as a first meeting occur again and therefore you need not think about it harriet said very true and she would not think about it but still she talked of itstill she could talk of nothing else and emma at last in order to put the martins out of her head was obliged to hurry on the news which she had meant to give with so much tender caution hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry ashamed or only amused at such a state of mind in poor harrietsuch a conclusion of mr eltons importance with her mr eltons rights however gradually revived though she did not feel the first intelligence as she might have done the day before or an hour before its interest soon increased and before their first conversation was over she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity wonder and regret pain and pleasure as to this fortunate miss hawkins which could conduce to place the martins under proper subordination in her fancy emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting it had been serviceable in deadening the first shock without retaining any influence to alarm as harriet now lived the martins could not get at her without seeking her where hitherto they had wanted either the courage or the condescension to seek her for since her refusal of the brother the sisters never had been at mrs goddards and a twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again with any necessity or even any power of speech iv human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations that a young person who either marries or dies is sure of being kindly spoken of a week had not passed since miss hawkinss name was first mentioned in highbury before she was by some means or other discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind to be handsome elegant highly accomplished and perfectly amiable and when mr elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects and circulate the fame of her merits there was very little more for him to do than to tell her christian name and say whose music she principally played mr elton returned a very happy man he had gone away rejected and mortifieddisappointed in a very sanguine hope after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement and not only losing the right lady but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one he had gone away deeply offendedhe came back engaged to anotherand to another as superior of course to the first as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost he came back gay and selfsatisfied eager and busy caring nothing for miss woodhouse and defying miss smith the charming augusta hawkins in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit was in possession of an independent fortune of so many thousands as would always be called ten a point of some dignity as well as some convenience the story told well he had not thrown himself awayhe had gained a woman of 10000 l or thereabouts and he had gained her with such delightful rapiditythe first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice the history which he had to give mrs cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so gloriousthe steps so quick from the accidental rencontre to the dinner at mr greens and the party at mrs brownssmiles and blushes rising in importancewith consciousness and agitation richly scatteredthe lady had been so easily impressedso sweetly disposedhad in short to use a most intelligible phrase been so very ready to have him that vanity and prudence were equally contented he had caught both substance and shadowboth fortune and affection and was just the happy man he ought to be talking only of himself and his own concernsexpecting to be congratulatedready to be laughed atand with cordial fearless smiles now addressing all the young ladies of the place to whom a few weeks ago he would have been more cautiously gallant the wedding was no distant event as the parties had only themselves to please and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for and when he set out for bath again there was a general expectation which a certain glance of mrs coles did not seem to contradict that when he next entered highbury he would bring his bride during his present short stay emma had barely seen him but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension now spread over his air she was in fact beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings that except in a moral light as a penance a lesson a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again she wished him very well but he gave her pain and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction the pain of his continued residence in highbury however must certainly be lessened by his marriage many vain solicitudes would be preventedmany awkwardnesses smoothed by it a mrs elton would be an excuse for any change of intercourse former intimacy might sink without remark it would be almost beginning their life of civility again of the lady individually emma thought very little she was good enough for mr elton no doubt accomplished enough for highburyhandsome enoughto look plain probably by harriets side as to connexion there emma was perfectly easy persuaded that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of harriet he had done nothing on that article truth seemed attainable what she was must be uncertain but who she was might be found out and setting aside the 10000 l it did not appear that she was at all harriets superior she brought no name no blood no alliance miss hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a bristolmerchant of course he must be called but as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also part of every winter she had been used to spend in bath but bristol was her home the very heart of bristol for though the father and mother had died some years ago an uncle remainedin the law linenothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him than that he was in the law line and with him the daughter had lived emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney and too stupid to rise and all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister who was very well married to a gentleman in a great way near bristol who kept two carriages that was the windup of the history that was the glory of miss hawkins could she but have given harriet her feelings about it all she had talked her into love but alas she was not so easily to be talked out of it the charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of harriets mind was not to be talked away he might be superseded by another he certainly would indeed nothing could be clearer even a robert martin would have been sufficient but nothing else she feared would cure her harriet was one of those who having once begun would be always in love and now poor girl she was considerably worse from this reappearance of mr elton she was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other emma saw him only once but two or three times every day harriet was sure just to meet with him or just to miss him just to hear his voice or see his shoulder just to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture she was moreover perpetually hearing about him for excepting when at hartfield she was always among those who saw no fault in mr elton and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns and every report therefore every guessall that had already occurred all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs comprehending income servants and furniture was continually in agitation around her her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him and her regrets kept alive and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of miss hawkinss happiness and continual observation of how much he seemed attachedhis air as he walked by the housethe very sitting of his hat being all in proof of how much he was in love had it been allowable entertainment had there been no pain to her friend or reproach to herself in the waverings of harriets mind emma would have been amused by its variations sometimes mr elton predominated sometimes the martins and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other mr eltons engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting mr martin the unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by elizabeth martins calling at mrs goddards a few days afterwards harriet had not been at home but a note had been prepared and left for her written in the very style to touch a small mixture of reproach with a great deal of kindness and till mr elton himself appeared she had been much occupied by it continually pondering over what could be done in return and wishing to do more than she dared to confess but mr elton in person had driven away all such cares while he staid the martins were forgotten and on the very morning of his setting off for bath again emma to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned judged it best for her to return elizabeth martins visit how that visit was to be acknowledgedwhat would be necessaryand what might be safest had been a point of some doubtful consideration absolute neglect of the mother and sisters when invited to come would be ingratitude it must not be and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance after much thinking she could determine on nothing better than harriets returning the visit but in a way that if they had understanding should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance she meant to take her in the carriage leave her at the abbey mill while she drove a little farther and call for her again so soon as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future she could think of nothing better and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approvesomething of ingratitude merely glossed overit must be done or what would become of harriet v small heart had harriet for visiting only half an hour before her friend called for her at mrs goddards her evil stars had led her to the very spot where at that moment a trunk directed to the rev philip elton whitehart bath was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into the butchers cart which was to convey it to where the coaches past and every thing in this world excepting that trunk and the direction was consequently a blank she went however and when they reached the farm and she was to be put down at the end of the broad neat gravel walk which led between espalier appletrees to the front door the sight of every thing which had given her so much pleasure the autumn before was beginning to revive a little local agitation and when they parted emma observed her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity which determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour she went on herself to give that portion of time to an old servant who was married and settled in donwell the quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again and miss smith receiving her summons was with her without delay and unattended by any alarming young man she came solitarily down the gravel walka miss martin just appearing at the door and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account she was feeling too much but at last emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of meeting and the sort of pain it was creating she had seen only mrs martin and the two girls they had received her doubtingly if not coolly and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been talked almost all the timetill just at last when mrs martins saying all of a sudden that she thought miss smith was grown had brought on a more interesting subject and a warmer manner in that very room she had been measured last september with her two friends there were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window he had done it they all seemed to remember the day the hour the party the occasionto feel the same consciousness the same regretsto be ready to return to the same good understanding and they were just growing again like themselves harriet as emma must suspect as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy when the carriage reappeared and all was over the style of the visit and the shortness of it were then felt to be decisive fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months agoemma could not but picture it all and feel how justly they might resent how naturally harriet must suffer it was a bad business she would have given a great deal or endured a great deal to have had the martins in a higher rank of life they were so deserving that a little higher should have been enough but as it was how could she have done otherwiseimpossibleshe could not repent they must be separated but there was a great deal of pain in the processso much to herself at this time that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation and resolved on going home by way of randalls to procure it her mind was quite sick of mr elton and the martins the refreshment of randalls was absolutely necessary it was a good scheme but on driving to the door they heard that neither master nor mistress was at home they had both been out some time the man believed they were gone to hartfield this is too bad cried emma as they turned away and now we shall just miss them too provokingi do not know when i have been so disappointed and she leaned back in the corner to indulge her murmurs or to reason them away probably a little of bothsuch being the commonest process of a not illdisposed mind presently the carriage stopt she looked up it was stopt by mr and mrs weston who were standing to speak to her there was instant pleasure in the sight of them and still greater pleasure was conveyed in soundfor mr weston immediately accosted her with how dye dohow dye dowe have been sitting with your fatherglad to see him so well frank comes tomorrowi had a letter this morningwe see him tomorrow by dinnertime to a certaintyhe is at oxford today and he comes for a whole fortnight i knew it would be so if he had come at christmas he could not have staid three days i was always glad he did not come at christmas now we are going to have just the right weather for him fine dry settled weather we shall enjoy him completely every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish there was no resisting such news no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as mr westons confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife fewer and quieter but not less to the purpose to know that she thought his coming certain was enough to make emma consider it so and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy it was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits the wornout past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming and in the rapidity of half a moments thought she hoped mr elton would now be talked of no more mr weston gave her the history of the engagements at enscombe which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command as well as the route and the method of his journey and she listened and smiled and congratulated i shall soon bring him over to hartfield said he at the conclusion emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech from his wife we had better move on mr weston said she we are detaining the girls well well i am readyand turning again to emma but you must not be expecting such a very fine young man you have only had my account you know i dare say he is really nothing extraordinarythough his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing think of me tomorrow my dear emma about four oclock was mrs westons parting injunction spoken with some anxiety and meant only for her four oclockdepend upon it he will be here by three was mr westons quick amendment and so ended a most satisfactory meeting emmas spirits were mounted quite up to happiness every thing wore a different air james and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before when she looked at the hedges she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out and when she turned round to harriet she saw something like a look of spring a tender smile even there will mr frank churchill pass through bath as well as oxfordwas a question however which did not augur much but neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once and emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time the morning of the interesting day arrived and mrs westons faithful pupil did not forget either at ten or eleven or twelve oclock that she was to think of her at four my dear dear anxious friendsaid she in mental soliloquy while walking downstairs from her own room always overcareful for every bodys comfort but your own i see you now in all your little fidgets going again and again into his room to be sure that all is right the clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall tis twelve i shall not forget to think of you four hours hence and by this time tomorrow perhaps or a little later i may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here i am sure they will bring him soon she opened the parlour door and saw two gentlemen sitting with her fathermr weston and his son they had been arrived only a few minutes and mr weston had scarcely finished his explanation of franks being a day before his time and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations when she appeared to have her share of surprize introduction and pleasure the frank churchill so long talked of so high in interest was actually before herhe was presented to her and she did not think too much had been said in his praise he was a very good looking young man height air address all were unexceptionable and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his fathers he looked quick and sensible she felt immediately that she should like him and there was a wellbred ease of manner and a readiness to talk which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her and that acquainted they soon must be he had reached randalls the evening before she was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan and travel earlier later and quicker that he might gain half a day i told you yesterday cried mr weston with exultation i told you all that he would be here before the time named i remembered what i used to do myself one cannot creep upon a journey one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned and the pleasure of coming in upon ones friends before the lookout begins is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs it is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it said the young man though there are not many houses that i should presume on so far but in coming home i felt i might do any thing the word home made his father look on him with fresh complacency emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable the conviction was strengthened by what followed he was very much pleased with randalls thought it a most admirably arranged house would hardly allow it even to be very small admired the situation the walk to highbury highbury itself hartfield still more and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but ones own country gives and the greatest curiosity to visit it that he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before passed suspiciously through emmas brain but still if it were a falsehood it was a pleasant one and pleasantly handled his manner had no air of study or exaggeration he did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance on his side were the inquirieswas she a horsewomanpleasant ridespleasant walkshad they a large neighbourhoodhighbury perhaps afforded society enoughthere were several very pretty houses in and about itballshad they ballswas it a musical society but when satisfied on all these points and their acquaintance proportionably advanced he contrived to find an opportunity while their two fathers were engaged with each other of introducing his motherinlaw and speaking of her with so much handsome praise so much warm admiration so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father and her very kind reception of himself as was an additional proof of his knowing how to pleaseand of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her he did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by mrs weston but undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter he understood what would be welcome he could be sure of little else his fathers marriage he said had been the wisest measure every friend must rejoice in it and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him he got as near as he could to thanking her for miss taylors merits without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that miss taylor had formed miss woodhouses character than miss woodhouse miss taylors and at last as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person elegant agreeable manners i was prepared for said he but i confess that considering every thing i had not expected more than a very tolerably welllooking woman of a certain age i did not know that i was to find a pretty young woman in mrs weston you cannot see too much perfection in mrs weston for my feelings said emma were you to guess her to be eighteen i should listen with pleasure but she would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words dont let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman i hope i should know better he replied no depend upon it with a gallant bow that in addressing mrs weston i should understand whom i might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other which had taken strong possession of her mind had ever crossed his and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence or proofs of defiance she must see more of him to understand his ways at present she only felt they were agreeable she had no doubt of what mr weston was often thinking about his quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression and even when he might have determined not to look she was confident that he was often listening her own fathers perfect exemption from any thought of the kind the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion was a most comfortable circumstance happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing itthough always objecting to every marriage that was arranged he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them she blessed the favouring blindness he could now without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest give way to all his natural kindhearted civility in solicitous inquiries after mr frank churchills accommodation on his journey through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching coldwhich however he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till after another night a reasonable visit paid mr weston began to movehe must be going he had business at the crown about his hay and a great many errands for mrs weston at fords but he need not hurry any body else his son too well bred to hear the hint rose immediately also saying as you are going farther on business sir i will take the opportunity of paying a visit which must be paid some day or other and therefore may as well be paid now i have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours turning to emma a lady residing in or near highbury a family of the name of fairfax i shall have no difficulty i suppose in finding the house though fairfax i believe is not the proper namei should rather say barnes or bates do you know any family of that name to be sure we do cried his father mrs bateswe passed her housei saw miss bates at the window true true you are acquainted with miss fairfax i remember you knew her at weymouth and a fine girl she is call upon her by all means there is no necessity for my calling this morning said the young man another day would do as well but there was that degree of acquaintance at weymouth which oh go today go today do not defer it what is right to be done cannot be done too soon and besides i must give you a hint frank any want of attention to her here should be carefully avoided you saw her with the campbells when she was the equal of every body she mixed with but here she is with a poor old grandmother who has barely enough to live on if you do not call early it will be a slight the son looked convinced i have heard her speak of the acquaintance said emma she is a very elegant young woman he agreed to it but with so quiet a yes as inclined her almost to doubt his real concurrence and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world if jane fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it if you were never particularly struck by her manners before said she i think you will today you will see her to advantage see her and hear herno i am afraid you will not hear her at all for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue you are acquainted with miss jane fairfax sir are you said mr woodhouse always the last to make his way in conversation then give me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady she is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt very worthy people i have known them all my life they will be extremely glad to see you i am sure and one of my servants shall go with you to shew you the way my dear sir upon no account in the world my father can direct me but your father is not going so far he is only going to the crown quite on the other side of the street and there are a great many houses you might be very much at a loss and it is a very dirty walk unless you keep on the footpath but my coachman can tell you where you had best cross the street mr frank churchill still declined it looking as serious as he could and his father gave his hearty support by calling out my good friend this is quite unnecessary frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it and as to mrs batess he may get there from the crown in a hop step and jump they were permitted to go alone and with a cordial nod from one and a graceful bow from the other the two gentlemen took leave emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance and could now engage to think of them all at randalls any hour of the day with full confidence in their comfort vi the next morning brought mr frank churchill again he came with mrs weston to whom and to highbury he seemed to take very cordially he had been sitting with her it appeared most companionably at home till her usual hour of exercise and on being desired to chuse their walk immediately fixed on highburyhe did not doubt there being very pleasant walks in every direction but if left to him he should always chuse the same highbury that airy cheerful happylooking highbury would be his constant attractionhighbury with mrs weston stood for hartfield and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him they walked thither directly emma had hardly expected them for mr weston who had called in for half a minute in order to hear that his son was very handsome knew nothing of their plans and it was an agreeable surprize to her therefore to perceive them walking up to the house together arm in arm she was wanting to see him again and especially to see him in company with mrs weston upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend if he were deficient there nothing should make amends for it but on seeing them together she became perfectly satisfied it was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to hernothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her affection and there was time enough for emma to form a reasonable judgment as their visit included all the rest of the morning they were all three walking about together for an hour or twofirst round the shrubberies of hartfield and afterwards in highbury he was delighted with every thing admired hartfield sufficiently for mr woodhouses ear and when their going farther was resolved on confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole village and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than emma could have supposed some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings he begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long and which had been the home of his fathers father and on recollecting that an old woman who had nursed him was still living walked in quest of her cottage from one end of the street to the other and though in some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit they shewed altogether a goodwill towards highbury in general which must be very like a merit to those he was with emma watched and decided that with such feelings as were now shewn it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting himself that he had not been acting a part or making a parade of insincere professions and that mr knightley certainly had not done him justice their first pause was at the crown inn an inconsiderable house though the principal one of the sort where a couple of pair of posthorses were kept more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run on the road and his companions had not expected to be detained by any interest excited there but in passing it they gave the history of the large room visibly added it had been built many years ago for a ballroom and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly populous dancing state had been occasionally used as suchbut such brilliant days had long passed away and now the highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established among the gentlemen and halfgentlemen of the place he was immediately interested its character as a ballroom caught him and instead of passing on he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed windows which were open to look in and contemplate its capabilities and lament that its original purpose should have ceased he saw no fault in the room he would acknowledge none which they suggested no it was long enough broad enough handsome enough it would hold the very number for comfort they ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through the winter why had not miss woodhouse revived the former good old days of the roomshe who could do any thing in highbury the want of proper families in the place and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to attend were mentioned but he was not satisfied he could not be persuaded that so many goodlooking houses as he saw around him could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting and even when particulars were given and families described he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every bodys returning into their proper place the next morning he argued like a young man very much bent on dancing and emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the churchills he seemed to have all the life and spirit cheerful feelings and social inclinations of his father and nothing of the pride or reserve of enscombe of pride indeed there was perhaps scarcely enough his indifference to a confusion of rank bordered too much on inelegance of mind he could be no judge however of the evil he was holding cheap it was but an effusion of lively spirits at last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the crown and being now almost facing the house where the bateses lodged emma recollected his intended visit the day before and asked him if he had paid it yes oh yeshe replied i was just going to mention it a very successful visiti saw all the three ladies and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint if the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize it must have been the death of me as it was i was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit ten minutes would have been all that was necessary perhaps all that was proper and i had told my father i should certainly be at home before himbut there was no getting away no pause and to my utter astonishment i found when he finding me nowhere else joined me there at last that i had been actually sitting with them very nearly threequarters of an hour the good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before and how did you think miss fairfax looking ill very illthat is if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill but the expression is hardly admissible mrs weston is it ladies can never look ill and seriously miss fairfax is naturally so pale as almost always to give the appearance of ill healtha most deplorable want of complexion emma would not agree to this and began a warm defence of miss fairfaxs complexion it was certainly never brilliant but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face he listened with all due deference acknowledged that he had heard many people say the samebut yet he must confess that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health where features were indifferent a fine complexion gave beauty to them all and where they were good the effect wasfortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was well said emma there is no disputing about tasteat least you admire her except her complexion he shook his head and laughedi cannot separate miss fairfax and her complexion did you see her often at weymouth were you often in the same society at this moment they were approaching fords and he hastily exclaimed ha this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives as my father informs me he comes to highbury himself he says six days out of the seven and has always business at fords if it be not inconvenient to you pray let us go in that i may prove myself to belong to the place to be a true citizen of highbury i must buy something at fords it will be taking out my freedomi dare say they sell gloves oh yes gloves and every thing i do admire your patriotism you will be adored in highbury you were very popular before you came because you were mr westons sonbut lay out half a guinea at fords and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues they went in and while the sleek welltied parcels of mens beavers and york tan were bringing down and displaying on the counter he saidbut i beg your pardon miss woodhouse you were speaking to me you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my amor patriae do not let me lose it i assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life i merely asked whether you had known much of miss fairfax and her party at weymouth and now that i understand your question i must pronounce it to be a very unfair one it is always the ladys right to decide on the degree of acquaintance miss fairfax must already have given her accounti shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow upon my word you answer as discreetly as she could do herself but her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed she is so very reserved so very unwilling to give the least information about any body that i really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her may i indeedthen i will speak the truth and nothing suits me so well i met her frequently at weymouth i had known the campbells a little in town and at weymouth we were very much in the same set colonel campbell is a very agreeable man and mrs campbell a friendly warmhearted woman i like them all you know miss fairfaxs situation in life i conclude what she is destined to be yesrather hesitatinglyi believe i do you get upon delicate subjects emma said mrs weston smiling remember that i am heremr frank churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of miss fairfaxs situation in life i will move a little farther off i certainly do forget to think of her said emma as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend he looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment when the gloves were bought and they had quitted the shop again did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of play said frank churchill ever hear her repeated emma you forget how much she belongs to highbury i have heard her every year of our lives since we both began she plays charmingly you think so do youi wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge she appeared to me to play well that is with considerable taste but i know nothing of the matter myselfi am excessively fond of music but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any bodys performancei have been used to hear hers admired and i remember one proof of her being thought to play wella man a very musical man and in love with another womanengaged to heron the point of marriagewould yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument if the lady in question could sit down insteadnever seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other that i thought in a man of known musical talent was some proof proof indeed said emma highly amusedmr dixon is very musical is he we shall know more about them all in half an hour from you than miss fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year yes mr dixon and miss campbell were the persons and i thought it a very strong proof certainlyvery strong it was to own the truth a great deal stronger than if i had been miss campbell would have been at all agreeable to me i could not excuse a mans having more music than lovemore ear than eyea more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings how did miss campbell appear to like it it was her very particular friend you know poor comfort said emma laughing one would rather have a stranger preferred than ones very particular friendwith a stranger it might not recur againbut the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand to do every thing better than one does oneselfpoor mrs dixon well i am glad she is gone to settle in ireland you are right it was not very flattering to miss campbell but she really did not seem to feel it so much the betteror so much the worsei do not know which but be it sweetness or be it stupidity in herquickness of friendship or dulness of feelingthere was one person i think who must have felt it miss fairfax herself she must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction as to thati do not oh do not imagine that i expect an account of miss fairfaxs sensations from you or from any body else they are known to no human being i guess but herself but if she continued to play whenever she was asked by mr dixon one may guess what one chuses there appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all he began rather quickly but checking himself added however it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really werehow it might all be behind the scenes i can only say that there was smoothness outwardly but you who have known miss fairfax from a child must be a better judge of her character and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations than i can be i have known her from a child undoubtedly we have been children and women together and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimatethat we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends but we never did i hardly know how it has happened a little perhaps from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was by her aunt and grandmother and all their set and then her reservei never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved it is a most repulsive quality indeed said he oftentimes very convenient no doubt but never pleasing there is safety in reserve but no attraction one cannot love a reserved person not till the reserve ceases towards oneself and then the attraction may be the greater but i must be more in want of a friend or an agreeable companion than i have yet been to take the trouble of conquering any bodys reserve to procure one intimacy between miss fairfax and me is quite out of the question i have no reason to think ill of hernot the leastexcept that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal he perfectly agreed with her and after walking together so long and thinking so much alike emma felt herself so well acquainted with him that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting he was not exactly what she had expected less of the man of the world in some of his notions less of the spoiled child of fortune therefore better than she had expected his ideas seemed more moderatehis feelings warmer she was particularly struck by his manner of considering mr eltons house which as well as the church he would go and look at and would not join them in finding much fault with no he could not believe it a bad house not such a house as a man was to be pitied for having if it were to be shared with the woman he loved he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house there must be ample room in it for every real comfort the man must be a blockhead who wanted more mrs weston laughed and said he did not know what he was talking about used only to a large house himself and without ever thinking how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size he could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one but emma in her own mind determined that he did know what he was talking about and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life and to marry from worthy motives he might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeepers room or a bad butlers pantry but no doubt he did perfectly feel that enscombe could not make him happy and that whenever he were attached he would willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment vii emmas very good opinion of frank churchill was a little shaken the following day by hearing that he was gone off to london merely to have his hair cut a sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast and he had sent for a chaise and set off intending to return to dinner but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut there was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve it did not accord with the rationality of plan the moderation in expense or even the unselfish warmth of heart which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday vanity extravagance love of change restlessness of temper which must be doing something good or bad heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and mrs weston indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general he became liable to all these charges his father only called him a coxcomb and thought it a very good story but that mrs weston did not like it was clear enough by her passing it over as quickly as possible and making no other comment than that all young people would have their little whims with the exception of this little blot emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him mrs weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himselfhow much she saw to like in his disposition altogether he appeared to have a very open tempercertainly a very cheerful and lively one she could observe nothing wrong in his notions a great deal decidedly right he spoke of his uncle with warm regard was fond of talking of himsaid he would be the best man in the world if he were left to himself and though there was no being attached to the aunt he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect this was all very promising and but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him the honour if not of being really in love with her of being at least very near it and saved only by her own indifferencefor still her resolution held of never marryingthe honour in short of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance mr weston on his side added a virtue to the account which must have some weight he gave her to understand that frank admired her extremelythought her very beautiful and very charming and with so much to be said for him altogether she found she must not judge him harshly as mrs weston observed all young people would have their little whims there was one person among his new acquaintance in surry not so leniently disposed in general he was judged throughout the parishes of donwell and highbury with great candour liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young manone who smiled so often and bowed so well but there was one spirit among them not to be softened from its power of censure by bows or smilesmr knightley the circumstance was told him at hartfield for the moment he was silent but emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself over a newspaper he held in his hand hum just the trifling silly fellow i took him for she had half a mind to resent but an instants observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings and not meant to provoke and therefore she let it pass although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings mr and mrs westons visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune something occurred while they were at hartfield to make emma want their advice and which was still more lucky she wanted exactly the advice they gave this was the occurrencethe coles had been settled some years in highbury and were very good sort of peoplefriendly liberal and unpretending but on the other hand they were of low origin in trade and only moderately genteel on their first coming into the country they had lived in proportion to their income quietly keeping little company and that little unexpensively but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase of meansthe house in town had yielded greater profits and fortune in general had smiled on them with their wealth their views increased their want of a larger house their inclination for more company they added to their house to their number of servants to their expenses of every sort and by this time were in fortune and style of living second only to the family at hartfield their love of society and their new diningroom prepared every body for their keeping dinnercompany and a few parties chiefly among the single men had already taken place the regular and best families emma could hardly suppose they would presume to inviteneither donwell nor hartfield nor randalls nothing should tempt her to go if they did and she regretted that her fathers known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish the coles were very respectable in their way but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them this lesson she very much feared they would receive only from herself she had little hope of mr knightley none of mr weston but she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared that when the insult came at last it found her very differently affected donwell and randalls had received their invitation and none had come for her father and herself and mrs westons accounting for it with i suppose they will not take the liberty with you they know you do not dine out was not quite sufficient she felt that she should like to have had the power of refusal and afterwards as the idea of the party to be assembled there consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her occurred again and again she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept harriet was to be there in the evening and the bateses they had been speaking of it as they walked about highbury the day before and frank churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence might not the evening end in a dance had been a question of his the bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits and her being left in solitary grandeur even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment was but poor comfort it was the arrival of this very invitation while the westons were at hartfield which made their presence so acceptable for though her first remark on reading it was that of course it must be declined she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful she owned that considering every thing she was not absolutely without inclination for the party the coles expressed themselves so properlythere was so much real attention in the manner of itso much consideration for her father they would have solicited the honour earlier but had been waiting the arrival of a foldingscreen from london which they hoped might keep mr woodhouse from any draught of air and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his company upon the whole she was very persuadable and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comforthow certainly mrs goddard if not mrs bates might be depended on for bearing him companymr woodhouse was to be talked into an acquiescence of his daughters going out to dinner on a day now near at hand and spending the whole evening away from him as for his going emma did not wish him to think it possible the hours would be too late and the party too numerous he was soon pretty well resigned i am not fond of dinnervisiting said hei never was no more is emma late hours do not agree with us i am sorry mr and mrs cole should have done it i think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer and take their tea with ustake us in their afternoon walk which they might do as our hours are so reasonable and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening the dews of a summer evening are what i would not expose any body to however as they are so very desirous to have dear emma dine with them and as you will both be there and mr knightley too to take care of her i cannot wish to prevent it provided the weather be what it ought neither damp nor cold nor windy then turning to mrs weston with a look of gentle reproachah miss taylor if you had not married you would have staid at home with me well sir cried mr weston as i took miss taylor away it is incumbent on me to supply her place if i can and i will step to mrs goddard in a moment if you wish it but the idea of any thing to be done in a moment was increasing not lessening mr woodhouses agitation the ladies knew better how to allay it mr weston must be quiet and every thing deliberately arranged with this treatment mr woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual he should be happy to see mrs goddard he had a great regard for mrs goddard and emma should write a line and invite her james could take the note but first of all there must be an answer written to mrs cole you will make my excuses my dear as civilly as possible you will say that i am quite an invalid and go no where and therefore must decline their obliging invitation beginning with my compliments of course but you will do every thing right i need not tell you what is to be done we must remember to let james know that the carriage will be wanted on tuesday i shall have no fears for you with him we have never been there above once since the new approach was made but still i have no doubt that james will take you very safely and when you get there you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again and you had better name an early hour you will not like staying late you will get very tired when tea is over but you would not wish me to come away before i am tired papa oh no my love but you will soon be tired there will be a great many people talking at once you will not like the noise but my dear sir cried mr weston if emma comes away early it will be breaking up the party and no great harm if it does said mr woodhouse the sooner every party breaks up the better but you do not consider how it may appear to the coles emmas going away directly after tea might be giving offence they are goodnatured people and think little of their own claims but still they must feel that any bodys hurrying away is no great compliment and miss woodhouses doing it would be more thought of than any other persons in the room you would not wish to disappoint and mortify the coles i am sure sir friendly good sort of people as ever lived and who have been your neighbours these ten years no upon no account in the world mr weston i am much obliged to you for reminding me i should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain i know what worthy people they are perry tells me that mr cole never touches malt liquor you would not think it to look at him but he is biliousmr cole is very bilious no i would not be the means of giving them any pain my dear emma we must consider this i am sure rather than run the risk of hurting mr and mrs cole you would stay a little longer than you might wish you will not regard being tired you will be perfectly safe you know among your friends oh yes papa i have no fears at all for myself and i should have no scruples of staying as late as mrs weston but on your account i am only afraid of your sitting up for me i am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with mrs goddard she loves piquet you know but when she is gone home i am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself instead of going to bed at your usual timeand the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort you must promise me not to sit up he did on the condition of some promises on her side such as that if she came home cold she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly if hungry that she would take something to eat that her own maid should sit up for her and that serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in the house as usual viii frank churchill came back again and if he kept his fathers dinner waiting it was not known at hartfield for mrs weston was too anxious for his being a favourite with mr woodhouse to betray any imperfection which could be concealed he came back had had his hair cut and laughed at himself with a very good grace but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done he had no reason to wish his hair longer to conceal any confusion of face no reason to wish the money unspent to improve his spirits he was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever and after seeing him emma thus moralised to herself i do not know whether it ought to be so but certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way wickedness is always wickedness but folly is not always follyit depends upon the character of those who handle it mr knightley he is not a trifling silly young man if he were he would have done this differently he would either have gloried in the achievement or been ashamed of it there would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanitiesno i am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly with tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again and for a longer time than hitherto of judging of his general manners and by inference of the meaning of his manners towards herself of guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air and of fancying what the observations of all those might be who were now seeing them together for the first time she meant to be very happy in spite of the scene being laid at mr coles and without being able to forget that among the failings of mr elton even in the days of his favour none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with mr cole her fathers comfort was amply secured mrs bates as well as mrs goddard being able to come and her last pleasing duty before she left the house was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress to make the two ladies all the amends in her power by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine for whatever unwilling selfdenial his care of their constitution might have obliged them to practise during the mealshe had provided a plentiful dinner for them she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat it she followed another carriage to mr coles door and was pleased to see that it was mr knightleys for mr knightley keeping no horses having little spare money and a great deal of health activity and independence was too apt in emmas opinion to get about as he could and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of donwell abbey she had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart for he stopped to hand her out this is coming as you should do said she like a gentlemani am quite glad to see you he thanked her observing how lucky that we should arrive at the same moment for if we had met first in the drawingroom i doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usualyou might not have distinguished how i came by my look or manner yes i should i am sure i should there is always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them you think you carry it off very well i dare say but with you it is a sort of bravado an air of affected unconcern i always observe it whenever i meet you under those circumstances now you have nothing to try for you are not afraid of being supposed ashamed you are not striving to look taller than any body else now i shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you nonsensical girl was his reply but not at all in anger emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with mr knightley she was received with a cordial respect which could not but please and given all the consequence she could wish for when the westons arrived the kindest looks of love the strongest of admiration were for her from both husband and wife the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object and at dinner she found him seated by herand as she firmly believed not without some dexterity on his side the party was rather large as it included one other family a proper unobjectionable country family whom the coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance and the male part of mr coxs family the lawyer of highbury the less worthy females were to come in the evening with miss bates miss fairfax and miss smith but already at dinner they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general and while politics and mr elton were talked over emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour the first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend was the name of jane fairfax mrs cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting she listened and found it well worth listening to that very dear part of emma her fancy received an amusing supply mrs cole was telling that she had been calling on miss bates and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a pianofortea very elegant looking instrumentnot a grand but a largesized square pianoforte and the substance of the story the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize and inquiry and congratulations on her side and explanations on miss batess was that this pianoforte had arrived from broadwoods the day before to the great astonishment of both aunt and nieceentirely unexpected that at first by miss batess account jane herself was quite at a loss quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered itbut now they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarterof course it must be from colonel campbell one can suppose nothing else added mrs cole and i was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt but jane it seems had a letter from them very lately and not a word was said about it she knows their ways best but i should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present they might chuse to surprize her mrs cole had many to agree with her every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from colonel campbell and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made and there were enough ready to speak to allow emma to think her own way and still listen to mrs cole i declare i do not know when i have heard any thing that has given me more satisfactionit always has quite hurt me that jane fairfax who plays so delightfully should not have an instrument it seemed quite a shame especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away this is like giving ourselves a slap to be sure and it was but yesterday i was telling mr cole i really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawingroom while i do not know one note from another and our little girls who are but just beginning perhaps may never make any thing of it and there is poor jane fairfax who is mistress of music has not any thing of the nature of an instrument not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world to amuse herself withi was saying this to mr cole but yesterday and he quite agreed with me only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can and that really is the reason why the instrument was boughtor else i am sure we ought to be ashamed of itwe are in great hopes that miss woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening miss woodhouse made the proper acquiescence and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of mrs coles turned to frank churchill why do you smile said she nay why do you mei suppose i smile for pleasure at colonel campbells being so rich and so liberalit is a handsome present very i rather wonder that it was never made before perhaps miss fairfax has never been staying here so long before or that he did not give her the use of their own instrumentwhich must now be shut up in london untouched by any body that is a grand pianoforte and he might think it too large for mrs batess house you may say what you chusebut your countenance testifies that your thoughts on this subject are very much like mine i do not know i rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than i deserve i smile because you smile and shall probably suspect whatever i find you suspect but at present i do not see what there is to question if colonel campbell is not the person who can be what do you say to mrs dixon mrs dixon very true indeed i had not thought of mrs dixon she must know as well as her father how acceptable an instrument would be and perhaps the mode of it the mystery the surprize is more like a young womans scheme than an elderly mans it is mrs dixon i dare say i told you that your suspicions would guide mine if so you must extend your suspicions and comprehend mr dixon in them mr dixonvery well yes i immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of mr and mrs dixon we were speaking the other day you know of his being so warm an admirer of her performance yes and what you told me on that head confirmed an idea which i had entertained beforei do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either mr dixon or miss fairfax but i cannot help suspecting either that after making his proposals to her friend he had the misfortune to fall in love with her or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side one might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right but i am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to highbury instead of going with the campbells to ireland here she must be leading a life of privation and penance there it would have been all enjoyment as to the pretence of trying her native air i look upon that as a mere excusein the summer it might have passed but what can any bodys native air do for them in the months of january february and march good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health and i dare say in hers i do not require you to adopt all my suspicions though you make so noble a profession of doing it but i honestly tell you what they are and upon my word they have an air of great probability mr dixons preference of her music to her friends i can answer for being very decided and then he saved her life did you ever hear of thata water party and by some accident she was falling overboard he caught her he did i was thereone of the party were you reallywellbut you observed nothing of course for it seems to be a new idea to youif i had been there i think i should have made some discoveries i dare say you would but i simple i saw nothing but the fact that miss fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that mr dixon caught herit was the work of a moment and though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durableindeed i believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable againyet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable i do not mean to say however that you might not have made discoveries the conversation was here interrupted they were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others but when the table was again safely covered when every corner dish was placed exactly right and occupation and ease were generally restored emma said the arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me i wanted to know a little more and this tells me quite enough depend upon it we shall soon hear that it is a present from mr and mrs dixon and if the dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the campbells no i am sure it is not from the campbells miss fairfax knows it is not from the campbells or they would have been guessed at first she would not have been puzzled had she dared fix on them i may not have convinced you perhaps but i am perfectly convinced myself that mr dixon is a principal in the business indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced your reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely at first while i supposed you satisfied that colonel campbell was the giver i saw it only as paternal kindness and thought it the most natural thing in the world but when you mentioned mrs dixon i felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship and now i can see it in no other light than as an offering of love there was no occasion to press the matter farther the conviction seemed real he looked as if he felt it she said no more other subjects took their turn and the rest of the dinner passed away the dessert succeeded the children came in and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of conversation a few clever things said a few downright silly but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the othernothing worse than everyday remarks dull repetitions old news and heavy jokes the ladies had not been long in the drawingroom before the other ladies in their different divisions arrived emma watched the entree of her own particular little friend and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner but could most heartily rejoice in that light cheerful unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection there she satand who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding to be in company nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed to sit and smile and look pretty and say nothing was enough for the happiness of the present hour jane fairfax did look and move superior but emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with harriet very glad to have purchased the mortification of having lovedyes of having loved even mr elton in vainby the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend in so large a party it was not necessary that emma should approach her she did not wish to speak of the pianoforte she felt too much in the secret herself to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair and therefore purposely kept at a distance but by the others the subject was almost immediately introduced and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations were received the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of my excellent friend colonel campbell mrs weston kindhearted and musical was particularly interested by the circumstance and emma could not help being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the subject and having so much to ask and to say as to tone touch and pedal totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about it as possible which she plainly read in the fair heroines countenance they were soon joined by some of the gentlemen and the very first of the early was frank churchill in he walked the first and the handsomest and after paying his compliments en passant to miss bates and her niece made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle where sat miss woodhouse and till he could find a seat by her would not sit at all emma divined what every body present must be thinking she was his object and every body must perceive it she introduced him to her friend miss smith and at convenient moments afterwards heard what each thought of the other he had never seen so lovely a face and was delighted with her naïveté and she only to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment but she did think there were some looks a little like mr elton emma restrained her indignation and only turned from her in silence smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing towards miss fairfax but it was most prudent to avoid speech he told her that he had been impatient to leave the diningroomhated sitting longwas always the first to move when he couldthat his father mr knightley mr cox and mr cole were left very busy over parish businessthat as long as he had staid however it had been pleasant enough as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike sensible men and spoke so handsomely of highbury altogetherthought it so abundant in agreeable familiesthat emma began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much she questioned him as to the society in yorkshirethe extent of the neighbourhood about enscombe and the sort and could make out from his answers that as far as enscombe was concerned there was very little going on that their visitings were among a range of great families none very near and that even when days were fixed and invitations accepted it was an even chance that mrs churchill were not in health and spirits for going that they made a point of visiting no fresh person and that though he had his separate engagements it was not without difficulty without considerable address at times that he could get away or introduce an acquaintance for a night she saw that enscombe could not satisfy and that highbury taken at its best might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at home than he liked his importance at enscombe was very evident he did not boast but it naturally betrayed itself that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing and on her laughing and noticing it he owned that he believed excepting one or two points he could with time persuade her to any thing one of those points on which his influence failed he then mentioned he had wanted very much to go abroadhad been very eager indeed to be allowed to travelbut she would not hear of it this had happened the year before now he said he was beginning to have no longer the same wish the unpersuadable point which he did not mention emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father i have made a most wretched discovery said he after a short pause i have been here a week tomorrowhalf my time i never knew days fly so fast a week tomorrowand i have hardly begun to enjoy myself but just got acquainted with mrs weston and othersi hate the recollection perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day out of so few in having your hair cut no said he smiling that is no subject of regret at all i have no pleasure in seeing my friends unless i can believe myself fit to be seen the rest of the gentlemen being now in the room emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes and listen to mr cole when mr cole had moved away and her attention could be restored as before she saw frank churchill looking intently across the room at miss fairfax who was sitting exactly opposite what is the matter said she he started thank you for rousing me he replied i believe i have been very rude but really miss fairfax has done her hair in so odd a wayso very odd a waythat i cannot keep my eyes from her i never saw any thing so outréethose curlsthis must be a fancy of her own i see nobody else looking like heri must go and ask her whether it is an irish fashion shall iyes i willi declare i willand you shall see how she takes itwhether she colours he was gone immediately and emma soon saw him standing before miss fairfax and talking to her but as to its effect on the young lady as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them exactly in front of miss fairfax she could absolutely distinguish nothing before he could return to his chair it was taken by mrs weston this is the luxury of a large party said sheone can get near every body and say every thing my dear emma i am longing to talk to you i have been making discoveries and forming plans just like yourself and i must tell them while the idea is fresh do you know how miss bates and her niece came here howthey were invited were not they oh yesbut how they were conveyed hitherthe manner of their coming they walked i conclude how else could they come very truewell a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it would be to have jane fairfax walking home again late at night and cold as the nights are now and as i looked at her though i never saw her appear to more advantage it struck me that she was heated and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold poor girl i could not bear the idea of it so as soon as mr weston came into the room and i could get at him i spoke to him about the carriage you may guess how readily he came into my wishes and having his approbation i made my way directly to miss bates to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home for i thought it would be making her comfortable at once good soul she was as grateful as possible you may be sure nobody was ever so fortunate as herselfbut with many many thanksthere was no occasion to trouble us for mr knightleys carriage had brought and was to take them home again i was quite surprizedvery glad i am sure but really quite surprized such a very kind attentionand so thoughtful an attentionthe sort of thing that so few men would think of and in short from knowing his usual ways i am very much inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all i do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them very likely said emmanothing more likely i know no man more likely than mr knightley to do the sort of thingto do any thing really goodnatured useful considerate or benevolent he is not a gallant man but he is a very humane one and this considering jane fairfaxs illhealth would appear a case of humanity to himand for an act of unostentatious kindness there is nobody whom i would fix on more than on mr knightley i know he had horses todayfor we arrived together and i laughed at him about it but he said not a word that could betray well said mrs weston smiling you give him credit for more simple disinterested benevolence in this instance than i do for while miss bates was speaking a suspicion darted into my head and i have never been able to get it out again the more i think of it the more probable it appears in short i have made a match between mr knightley and jane fairfax see the consequence of keeping you companywhat do you say to it mr knightley and jane fairfax exclaimed emma dear mrs weston how could you think of such a thingmr knightleymr knightley must not marryyou would not have little henry cut out from donwelloh no no henry must have donwell i cannot at all consent to mr knightleys marrying and i am sure it is not at all likely i am amazed that you should think of such a thing my dear emma i have told you what led me to think of it i do not want the matchi do not want to injure dear little henrybut the idea has been given me by circumstances and if mr knightley really wished to marry you would not have him refrain on henrys account a boy of six years old who knows nothing of the matter yes i would i could not bear to have henry supplantedmr knightley marryno i have never had such an idea and i cannot adopt it now and jane fairfax too of all women nay she has always been a first favourite with him as you very well know but the imprudence of such a match i am not speaking of its prudence merely its probability i see no probability in it unless you have any better foundation than what you mention his goodnature his humanity as i tell you would be quite enough to account for the horses he has a great regard for the bateses you know independent of jane fairfaxand is always glad to shew them attention my dear mrs weston do not take to matchmaking you do it very ill jane fairfax mistress of the abbeyoh no noevery feeling revolts for his own sake i would not have him do so mad a thing imprudent if you pleasebut not mad excepting inequality of fortune and perhaps a little disparity of age i can see nothing unsuitable but mr knightley does not want to marry i am sure he has not the least idea of it do not put it into his head why should he marryhe is as happy as possible by himself with his farm and his sheep and his library and all the parish to manage and he is extremely fond of his brothers children he has no occasion to marry either to fill up his time or his heart my dear emma as long as he thinks so it is so but if he really loves jane fairfax nonsense he does not care about jane fairfax in the way of love i am sure he does not he would do any good to her or her family but well said mrs weston laughing perhaps the greatest good he could do them would be to give jane such a respectable home if it would be good to her i am sure it would be evil to himself a very shameful and degrading connexion how would he bear to have miss bates belonging to himto have her haunting the abbey and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying janeso very kind and obligingbut he always had been such a very kind neighbour and then fly off through half a sentence to her mothers old petticoat not that it was such a very old petticoat eitherfor still it would last a great whileand indeed she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong for shame emma do not mimic her you divert me against my conscience and upon my word i do not think mr knightley would be much disturbed by miss bates little things do not irritate him she might talk on and if he wanted to say any thing himself he would only talk louder and drown her voice but the question is not whether it would be a bad connexion for him but whether he wishes it and i think he does i have heard him speak and so must you so very highly of jane fairfax the interest he takes in herhis anxiety about her healthhis concern that she should have no happier prospect i have heard him express himself so warmly on those pointssuch an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte and of her voice i have heard him say that he could listen to her for ever oh and i had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to methis pianoforte that has been sent here by somebodythough we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the campbells may it not be from mr knightley i cannot help suspecting him i think he is just the person to do it even without being in love then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love but i do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do mr knightley does nothing mysteriously i have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly oftener than i should suppose such a circumstance would in the common course of things occur to him very well and if he had intended to give her one he would have told her so there might be scruples of delicacy my dear emma i have a very strong notion that it comes from him i am sure he was particularly silent when mrs cole told us of it at dinner you take up an idea mrs weston and run away with it as you have many a time reproached me with doing i see no sign of attachmenti believe nothing of the pianoforteand proof only shall convince me that mr knightley has any thought of marrying jane fairfax they combated the point some time longer in the same way emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend for mrs weston was the most used of the two to yield till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over and the instrument in preparationand at the same moment mr cole approaching to entreat miss woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it frank churchill of whom in the eagerness of her conversation with mrs weston she had been seeing nothing except that he had found a seat by miss fairfax followed mr cole to add his very pressing entreaties and as in every respect it suited emma best to lead she gave a very proper compliance she knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable and could accompany her own voice well one accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprizea second slightly but correctly taken by frank churchill her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song and every thing usual followed he was accused of having a delightful voice and a perfect knowledge of music which was properly denied and that he knew nothing of the matter and had no voice at all roundly asserted they sang together once more and emma would then resign her place to miss fairfax whose performance both vocal and instrumental she never could attempt to conceal from herself was infinitely superior to her own with mixed feelings she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument to listen frank churchill sang again they had sung together once or twice it appeared at weymouth but the sight of mr knightley among the most attentive soon drew away half emmas mind and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of mrs westons suspicions to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions her objections to mr knightleys marrying did not in the least subside she could see nothing but evil in it it would be a great disappointment to mr john knightley consequently to isabella a real injury to the childrena most mortifying change and material loss to them alla very great deduction from her fathers daily comfortand as to herself she could not at all endure the idea of jane fairfax at donwell abbey a mrs knightley for them all to give way tonomr knightley must never marry little henry must remain the heir of donwell presently mr knightley looked back and came and sat down by her they talked at first only of the performance his admiration was certainly very warm yet she thought but for mrs weston it would not have struck her as a sort of touchstone however she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own i often feel concern said she that i dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions it is not that i am without the wish but you know how impossible my father would deem it that james should putto for such a purpose quite out of the question quite out of the question he repliedbut you must often wish it i am sure and he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction that she must proceed another step this present from the campbells said shethis pianoforte is very kindly given yes he replied and without the smallest apparent embarrassmentbut they would have done better had they given her notice of it surprizes are foolish things the pleasure is not enhanced and the inconvenience is often considerable i should have expected better judgment in colonel campbell from that moment emma could have taken her oath that mr knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument but whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachmentwhether there were no actual preferenceremained a little longer doubtful towards the end of janes second song her voice grew thick that will do said he when it was finished thinking aloudyou have sung quite enough for one eveningnow be quiet another song however was soon begged for one morethey would not fatigue miss fairfax on any account and would only ask for one more and frank churchill was heard to say i think you could manage this without effort the first part is so very trifling the strength of the song falls on the second mr knightley grew angry that fellow said he indignantly thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice this must not be and touching miss bates who at that moment passed nearmiss bates are you mad to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner go and interfere they have no mercy on her miss bates in her real anxiety for jane could hardly stay even to be grateful before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing here ceased the concert part of the evening for miss woodhouse and miss fairfax were the only young lady performers but soon within five minutes the proposal of dancingoriginating nobody exactly knew wherewas so effectually promoted by mr and mrs cole that every thing was rapidly clearing away to give proper space mrs weston capital in her countrydances was seated and beginning an irresistible waltz and frank churchill coming up with most becoming gallantry to emma had secured her hand and led her up to the top while waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off emma found time in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste to look about and see what became of mr knightley this would be a trial he was no dancer in general if he were to be very alert in engaging jane fairfax now it might augur something there was no immediate appearance no he was talking to mrs colehe was looking on unconcerned jane was asked by somebody else and he was still talking to mrs cole emma had no longer an alarm for henry his interest was yet safe and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment not more than five couple could be mustered but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful and she found herself well matched in a partner they were a couple worth looking at two dances unfortunately were all that could be allowed it was growing late and miss bates became anxious to get home on her mothers account after some attempts therefore to be permitted to begin again they were obliged to thank mrs weston look sorrowful and have done perhaps it is as well said frank churchill as he attended emma to her carriage i must have asked miss fairfax and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me after yours ix emma did not repent her condescension in going to the coles the visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity she must have delighted the colesworthy people who deserved to be made happyand left a name behind her that would not soon die away perfect happiness even in memory is not common and there were two points on which she was not quite easy she doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman in betraying her suspicions of jane fairfaxs feelings to frank churchill it was hardly right but it had been so strong an idea that it would escape her and his submission to all that she told was a compliment to her penetration which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue the other circumstance of regret related also to jane fairfax and there she had no doubt she did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing she did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhoodand sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half she was then interrupted by harriets coming in and if harriets praise could have satisfied her she might soon have been comforted oh if i could but play as well as you and miss fairfax dont class us together harriet my playing is no more like hers than a lamp is like sunshine oh deari think you play the best of the two i think you play quite as well as she does i am sure i had much rather hear you every body last night said how well you played those who knew any thing about it must have felt the difference the truth is harriet that my playing is just good enough to be praised but jane fairfaxs is much beyond it well i always shall think that you play quite as well as she does or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out mr cole said how much taste you had and mr frank churchill talked a great deal about your taste and that he valued taste much more than execution ah but jane fairfax has them both harriet are you sure i saw she had execution but i did not know she had any taste nobody talked about it and i hate italian singingthere is no understanding a word of it besides if she does play so very well you know it is no more than she is obliged to do because she will have to teach the coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family how did you think the coxes looked just as they always dovery vulgar they told me something said harriet rather hesitatingly but it is nothing of any consequence emma was obliged to ask what they had told her though fearful of its producing mr elton they told methat mr martin dined with them last saturday oh he came to their father upon some business and he asked him to stay to dinner oh they talked a great deal about him especially anne cox i do not know what she meant but she asked me if i thought i should go and stay there again next summer she meant to be impertinently curious just as such an anne cox should be she said he was very agreeable the day he dined there he sat by her at dinner miss nash thinks either of the coxes would be very glad to marry him very likelyi think they are without exception the most vulgar girls in highbury harriet had business at fordsemma thought it most prudent to go with her another accidental meeting with the martins was possible and in her present state would be dangerous harriet tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word was always very long at a purchase and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind emma went to the door for amusementmuch could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of highburymr perry walking hastily by mr william cox letting himself in at the officedoor mr coles carriagehorses returning from exercise or a stray letterboy on an obstinate mule were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone and a string of dawdling children round the bakers little bowwindow eyeing the gingerbread she knew she had no reason to complain and was amused enough quite enough still to stand at the door a mind lively and at ease can do with seeing nothing and can see nothing that does not answer she looked down the randalls road the scene enlarged two persons appeared mrs weston and her soninlaw they were walking into highburyto hartfield of course they were stopping however in the first place at mrs batess whose house was a little nearer randalls than fords and had all but knocked when emma caught their eyeimmediately they crossed the road and came forward to her and the agreeableness of yesterdays engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting mrs weston informed her that she was going to call on the bateses in order to hear the new instrument for my companion tells me said she that i absolutely promised miss bates last night that i would come this morning i was not aware of it myself i did not know that i had fixed a day but as he says i did i am going now and while mrs weston pays her visit i may be allowed i hope said frank churchill to join your party and wait for her at hartfieldif you are going home mrs weston was disappointed i thought you meant to go with me they would be very much pleased me i should be quite in the way but perhapsi may be equally in the way here miss woodhouse looks as if she did not want me my aunt always sends me off when she is shopping she says i fidget her to death and miss woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same what am i to do i am here on no business of my own said emma i am only waiting for my friend she will probably have soon done and then we shall go home but you had better go with mrs weston and hear the instrument wellif you advise itbut with a smile if colonel campbell should have employed a careless friend and if it should prove to have an indifferent tonewhat shall i say i shall be no support to mrs weston she might do very well by herself a disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips but i am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood i do not believe any such thing replied emmai am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours when it is necessary but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent quite otherwise indeed if i understood miss fairfaxs opinion last night do come with me said mrs weston if it be not very disagreeable to you it need not detain us long we will go to hartfield afterwards we will follow them to hartfield i really wish you to call with me it will be felt so great an attention and i always thought you meant it he could say no more and with the hope of hartfield to reward him returned with mrs weston to mrs batess door emma watched them in and then joined harriet at the interesting countertrying with all the force of her own mind to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at figured and that a blue ribbon be it ever so beautiful would still never match her yellow pattern at last it was all settled even to the destination of the parcel should i send it to mrs goddards maam asked mrs fordyesnoyes to mrs goddards only my pattern gown is at hartfield no you shall send it to hartfield if you please but then mrs goddard will want to see itand i could take the pattern gown home any day but i shall want the ribbon directlyso it had better go to hartfieldat least the ribbon you could make it into two parcels mrs ford could not you it is not worth while harriet to give mrs ford the trouble of two parcels no more it is no trouble in the world maam said the obliging mrs ford oh but indeed i would much rather have it only in one then if you please you shall send it all to mrs goddardsi do not knowno i think miss woodhouse i may just as well have it sent to hartfield and take it home with me at night what do you advise that you do not give another halfsecond to the subject to hartfield if you please mrs ford aye that will be much best said harriet quite satisfied i should not at all like to have it sent to mrs goddards voices approached the shopor rather one voice and two ladies mrs weston and miss bates met them at the door my dear miss woodhouse said the latter i am just run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while and give us your opinion of our new instrument you and miss smith how do you do miss smithvery well i thank youand i begged mrs weston to come with me that i might be sure of succeeding i hope mrs bates and miss fairfax are very well i am much obliged to you my mother is delightfully well and jane caught no cold last night how is mr woodhousei am so glad to hear such a good account mrs weston told me you were hereoh then said i i must run across i am sure miss woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in my mother will be so very happy to see herand now we are such a nice party she cannot refuseaye pray do said mr frank churchill miss woodhouses opinion of the instrument will be worth havingbut said i i shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with meoh said he wait half a minute till i have finished my jobfor would you believe it miss woodhouse there he is in the most obliging manner in the world fastening in the rivet of my mothers spectaclesthe rivet came out you know this morningso very obligingfor my mother had no use of her spectaclescould not put them on and by the bye every body ought to have two pair of spectacles they should indeed jane said so i meant to take them over to john saunders the first thing i did but something or other hindered me all the morning first one thing then another there is no saying what you know at one time patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping oh said i patty do not come with your bad news to me here is the rivet of your mistresss spectacles out then the baked apples came home mrs wallis sent them by her boy they are extremely civil and obliging to us the wallises alwaysi have heard some people say that mrs wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention from them and it cannot be for the value of our custom now for what is our consumption of bread you know only three of usbesides dear jane at presentand she really eats nothingmakes such a shocking breakfast you would be quite frightened if you saw it i dare not let my mother know how little she eatsso i say one thing and then i say another and it passes off but about the middle of the day she gets hungry and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples and they are extremely wholesome for i took the opportunity the other day of asking mr perry i happened to meet him in the street not that i had any doubt beforei have so often heard mr woodhouse recommend a baked apple i believe it is the only way that mr woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome we have appledumplings however very often patty makes an excellent appledumpling well mrs weston you have prevailed i hope and these ladies will oblige us emma would be very happy to wait on mrs bates c and they did at last move out of the shop with no farther delay from miss bates than how do you do mrs ford i beg your pardon i did not see you before i hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town jane came back delighted yesterday thank ye the gloves do very wellonly a little too large about the wrist but jane is taking them in what was i talking of said she beginning again when they were all in the street emma wondered on what of all the medley she would fix i declare i cannot recollect what i was talking ofoh my mothers spectacles so very obliging of mr frank churchill oh said he i do think i can fasten the rivet i like a job of this kind excessivelywhich you know shewed him to be so very indeed i must say that much as i had heard of him before and much as i had expected he very far exceeds any thing i do congratulate you mrs weston most warmly he seems every thing the fondest parent could oh said he i can fasten the rivet i like a job of that sort excessively i never shall forget his manner and when i brought out the baked apples from the closet and hoped our friends would be so very obliging as to take some oh said he directly there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good and these are the finestlooking homebaked apples i ever saw in my life that you know was so very and i am sure by his manner it was no compliment indeed they are very delightful apples and mrs wallis does them full justiceonly we do not have them baked more than twice and mr woodhouse made us promise to have them done three timesbut miss woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it the apples themselves are the very finest sort for baking beyond a doubt all from donwellsome of mr knightleys most liberal supply he sends us a sack every year and certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his treesi believe there is two of them my mother says the orchard was always famous in her younger days but i was really quite shocked the other dayfor mr knightley called one morning and jane was eating these apples and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed them and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock i am sure you must be said he and i will send you another supply for i have a great many more than i can ever use william larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this year i will send you some more before they get good for nothing so i begged he would notfor really as to ours being gone i could not absolutely say that we had a great many leftit was but half a dozen indeed but they should be all kept for jane and i could not at all bear that he should be sending us more so liberal as he had been already and jane said the same and when he was gone she almost quarrelled with meno i should not say quarrelled for we never had a quarrel in our lives but she was quite distressed that i had owned the apples were so nearly gone she wished i had made him believe we had a great many left oh said i my dear i did say as much as i could however the very same evening william larkins came over with a large basket of apples the same sort of apples a bushel at least and i was very much obliged and went down and spoke to william larkins and said every thing as you may suppose william larkins is such an old acquaintance i am always glad to see him but however i found afterwards from patty that william said it was all the apples of that sort his master had he had brought them alland now his master had not one left to bake or boil william did not seem to mind it himself he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many for william you know thinks more of his masters profit than any thing but mrs hodges he said was quite displeased at their being all sent away she could not bear that her master should not be able to have another appletart this spring he told patty this but bid her not mind it and be sure not to say any thing to us about it for mrs hodges would be cross sometimes and as long as so many sacks were sold it did not signify who ate the remainder and so patty told me and i was excessively shocked indeed i would not have mr knightley know any thing about it for the world he would be so very i wanted to keep it from janes knowledge but unluckily i had mentioned it before i was aware miss bates had just done as patty opened the door and her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to pursued only by the sounds of her desultory goodwill pray take care mrs weston there is a step at the turning pray take care miss woodhouse ours is rather a dark staircaserather darker and narrower than one could wish miss smith pray take care miss woodhouse i am quite concerned i am sure you hit your foot miss smith the step at the turning x the appearance of the little sittingroom as they entered was tranquillity itself mrs bates deprived of her usual employment slumbering on one side of the fire frank churchill at a table near her most deedily occupied about her spectacles and jane fairfax standing with her back to them intent on her pianoforte busy as he was however the young man was yet able to shew a most happy countenance on seeing emma again this is a pleasure said he in rather a low voice coming at least ten minutes earlier than i had calculated you find me trying to be useful tell me if you think i shall succeed what said mrs weston have not you finished it yet you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate i have not been working uninterruptedly he replied i have been assisting miss fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily it was not quite firm an unevenness in the floor i believe you see we have been wedging one leg with paper this was very kind of you to be persuaded to come i was almost afraid you would be hurrying home he contrived that she should be seated by him and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her and trying to make her help or advise him in his work till jane fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again that she was not immediately ready emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion she must reason herself into the power of performance and emma could not but pity such feelings whatever their origin and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again at last jane began and though the first bars were feebly given the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to mrs weston had been delighted before and was delighted again emma joined her in all her praise and the pianoforte with every proper discrimination was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise whoever colonel campbell might employ said frank churchill with a smile at emma the person has not chosen ill i heard a good deal of colonel campbells taste at weymouth and the softness of the upper notes i am sure is exactly what he and all that party would particularly prize i dare say miss fairfax that he either gave his friend very minute directions or wrote to broadwood himself do not you think so jane did not look round she was not obliged to hear mrs weston had been speaking to her at the same moment it is not fair said emma in a whisper mine was a random guess do not distress her he shook his head with a smile and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy soon afterwards he began again how much your friends in ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion miss fairfax i dare say they often think of you and wonder which will be the day the precise day of the instruments coming to hand do you imagine colonel campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this timedo you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him or that he may have sent only a general direction an order indefinite as to time to depend upon contingencies and conveniences he paused she could not but hear she could not avoid answering till i have a letter from colonel campbell said she in a voice of forced calmness i can imagine nothing with any confidence it must be all conjecture conjectureaye sometimes one conjectures right and sometimes one conjectures wrong i wish i could conjecture how soon i shall make this rivet quite firm what nonsense one talks miss woodhouse when hard at work if one talks at allyour real workmen i suppose hold their tongues but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a wordmiss fairfax said something about conjecturing there it is done i have the pleasure madam to mrs bates of restoring your spectacles healed for the present he was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter to escape a little from the latter he went to the pianoforte and begged miss fairfax who was still sitting at it to play something more if you are very kind said he it will be one of the waltzes we danced last nightlet me live them over again you did not enjoy them as i did you appeared tired the whole time i believe you were glad we danced no longer but i would have given worldsall the worlds one ever has to givefor another halfhour she played what felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made one happyif i mistake not that was danced at weymouth she looked up at him for a moment coloured deeply and played something else he took some music from a chair near the pianoforte and turning to emma said here is something quite new to me do you know itcramerand here are a new set of irish melodies that from such a quarter one might expect this was all sent with the instrument very thoughtful of colonel campbell was not ithe knew miss fairfax could have no music here i honour that part of the attention particularly it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart nothing hastily done nothing incomplete true affection only could have prompted it emma wished he would be less pointed yet could not help being amused and when on glancing her eye towards jane fairfax she caught the remains of a smile when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness there had been a smile of secret delight she had less scruple in the amusement and much less compunction with respect to herthis amiable upright perfect jane fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings he brought all the music to her and they looked it over togetheremma took the opportunity of whispering you speak too plain she must understand you i hope she does i would have her understand me i am not in the least ashamed of my meaning but really i am half ashamed and wish i had never taken up the idea i am very glad you did and that you communicated it to me i have now a key to all her odd looks and ways leave shame to her if she does wrong she ought to feel it she is not entirely without it i think i do not see much sign of it she is playing robin adair at this momenthis favourite shortly afterwards miss bates passing near the window descried mr knightley on horseback not far off mr knightley i declarei must speak to him if possible just to thank him i will not open the window here it would give you all cold but i can go into my mothers room you know i dare say he will come in when he knows who is here quite delightful to have you all meet soour little room so honoured she was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke and opening the casement there immediately called mr knightleys attention and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others as if it had passed within the same apartment how d ye dohow dye dovery well i thank you so obliged to you for the carriage last night we were just in time my mother just ready for us pray come in do come in you will find some friends here so began miss bates and mr knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn for most resolutely and commandingly did he say how is your niece miss batesi want to inquire after you all but particularly your niece how is miss fairfaxi hope she caught no cold last night how is she today tell me how miss fairfax is and miss bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else the listeners were amused and mrs weston gave emma a look of particular meaning but emma still shook her head in steady scepticism so obliged to youso very much obliged to you for the carriage resumed miss bates he cut her short with i am going to kingston can i do any thing for you oh dear kingstonare youmrs cole was saying the other day she wanted something from kingston mrs cole has servants to send can i do any thing for you no i thank you but do come in who do you think is heremiss woodhouse and miss smith so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte do put up your horse at the crown and come in well said he in a deliberating manner for five minutes perhaps and here is mrs weston and mr frank churchill tooquite delightful so many friends no not now i thank you i could not stay two minutes i must get on to kingston as fast as i can oh do come in they will be so very happy to see you no no your room is full enough i will call another day and hear the pianoforte well i am so sorryoh mr knightley what a delightful party last night how extremely pleasantdid you ever see such dancingwas not it delightfulmiss woodhouse and mr frank churchill i never saw any thing equal to it oh very delightful indeed i can say nothing less for i suppose miss woodhouse and mr frank churchill are hearing every thing that passes and raising his voice still more i do not see why miss fairfax should not be mentioned too i think miss fairfax dances very well and mrs weston is the very best countrydance player without exception in england now if your friends have any gratitude they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return but i cannot stay to hear it oh mr knightley one moment more something of consequenceso shockedjane and i are both so shocked about the apples what is the matter now to think of your sending us all your store apples you said you had a great many and now you have not one left we really are so shocked mrs hodges may well be angry william larkins mentioned it here you should not have done it indeed you should not ah he is off he never can bear to be thanked but i thought he would have staid now and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned well returning to the room i have not been able to succeed mr knightley cannot stop he is going to kingston he asked me if he could do any thing yes said jane we heard his kind offers we heard every thing oh yes my dear i dare say you might because you know the door was open and the window was open and mr knightley spoke loud you must have heard every thing to be sure can i do any thing for you at kingston said he so i just mentioned oh miss woodhouse must you be goingyou seem but just comeso very obliging of you emma found it really time to be at home the visit had already lasted long and on examining watches so much of the morning was perceived to be gone that mrs weston and her companion taking leave also could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to hartfield gates before they set off for randalls xi it may be possible to do without dancing entirely instances have been known of young people passing many many months successively without being at any ball of any description and no material injury accrue either to body or mindbut when a beginning is madewhen the felicities of rapid motion have once been though slightly feltit must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more frank churchill had danced once at highbury and longed to dance again and the last halfhour of an evening which mr woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter at randalls was passed by the two young people in schemes on the subject franks was the first idea and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it for the lady was the best judge of the difficulties and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance but still she had inclination enough for shewing people again how delightfully mr frank churchill and miss woodhouse dancedfor doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with jane fairfaxand even for simple dancing itself without any of the wicked aids of vanityto assist him first in pacing out the room they were in to see what it could be made to holdand then in taking the dimensions of the other parlour in the hope of discovering in spite of all that mr weston could say of their exactly equal size that it was a little the largest his first proposition and request that the dance begun at mr coles should be finished therethat the same party should be collected and the same musician engaged met with the readiest acquiescence mr weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment and mrs weston most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance and the interesting employment had followed of reckoning up exactly who there would be and portioning out the indispensable division of space to every couple you and miss smith and miss fairfax will be three and the two miss coxes five had been repeated many times over and there will be the two gilberts young cox my father and myself besides mr knightley yes that will be quite enough for pleasure you and miss smith and miss fairfax will be three and the two miss coxes five and for five couple there will be plenty of room but soon it came to be on one side but will there be good room for five couplei really do not think there will on another and after all five couple are not enough to make it worth while to stand up five couple are nothing when one thinks seriously about it it will not do to invite five couple it can be allowable only as the thought of the moment somebody said that miss gilbert was expected at her brothers and must be invited with the rest somebody else believed mrs gilbert would have danced the other evening if she had been asked a word was put in for a second young cox and at last mr weston naming one family of cousins who must be included and another of very old acquaintance who could not be left out it became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten and a very interesting speculation in what possible manner they could be disposed of the doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other might not they use both rooms and dance across the passage it seemed the best scheme and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better emma said it would be awkward mrs weston was in distress about the supper and mr woodhouse opposed it earnestly on the score of health it made him so very unhappy indeed that it could not be persevered in oh no said he it would be the extreme of imprudence i could not bear it for emmaemma is not strong she would catch a dreadful cold so would poor little harriet so you would all mrs weston you would be quite laid up do not let them talk of such a wild thing pray do not let them talk of it that young man speaking lower is very thoughtless do not tell his father but that young man is not quite the thing he has been opening the doors very often this evening and keeping them open very inconsiderately he does not think of the draught i do not mean to set you against him but indeed he is not quite the thing mrs weston was sorry for such a charge she knew the importance of it and said every thing in her power to do it away every door was now closed the passage plan given up and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again and with such goodwill on frank churchills part that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten we were too magnificent said he we allowed unnecessary room ten couple may stand here very well emma demurred it would be a crowda sad crowd and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in very true he gravely replied it was very bad but still he went on measuring and still he ended with i think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple no no said she you are quite unreasonable it would be dreadful to be standing so close nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowdand a crowd in a little room there is no denying it he replied i agree with you exactly a crowd in a little roommiss woodhouse you have the art of giving pictures in a few words exquisite quite exquisitestill however having proceeded so far one is unwilling to give the matter up it would be a disappointment to my fatherand altogetheri do not know thati am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little selfwilled and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her but she took the compliment and forgave the rest had she intended ever to marry him it might have been worth while to pause and consider and try to understand the value of his preference and the character of his temper but for all the purposes of their acquaintance he was quite amiable enough before the middle of the next day he was at hartfield and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme it soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement well miss woodhouse he almost immediately began your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away i hope by the terrors of my fathers little rooms i bring a new proposal on the subjecta thought of my fathers which waits only your approbation to be acted upon may i hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball to be given not at randalls but at the crown inn the crown yes if you and mr woodhouse see no objection and i trust you cannot my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there better accommodations he can promise them and not a less grateful welcome than at randalls it is his own idea mrs weston sees no objection to it provided you are satisfied this is what we all feel oh you were perfectly right ten couple in either of the randalls rooms would have been insufferabledreadfuli felt how right you were the whole time but was too anxious for securing any thing to like to yield is not it a good exchangeyou consenti hope you consent it appears to me a plan that nobody can object to if mr and mrs weston do not i think it admirable and as far as i can answer for myself shall be most happyit seems the only improvement that could be papa do you not think it an excellent improvement she was obliged to repeat and explain it before it was fully comprehended and then being quite new farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable no he thought it very far from an improvementa very bad planmuch worse than the other a room at an inn was always damp and dangerous never properly aired or fit to be inhabited if they must dance they had better dance at randalls he had never been in the room at the crown in his lifedid not know the people who kept it by sightoh noa very bad plan they would catch worse colds at the crown than anywhere i was going to observe sir said frank churchill that one of the great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of any bodys catching coldso much less danger at the crown than at randalls mr perry might have reason to regret the alteration but nobody else could sir said mr woodhouse rather warmly you are very much mistaken if you suppose mr perry to be that sort of character mr perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill but i do not understand how the room at the crown can be safer for you than your fathers house from the very circumstance of its being larger sir we shall have no occasion to open the windows at allnot once the whole evening and it is that dreadful habit of opening the windows letting in cold air upon heated bodies which as you well know sir does the mischief open the windowsbut surely mr churchill nobody would think of opening the windows at randalls nobody could be so imprudent i never heard of such a thing dancing with open windowsi am sure neither your father nor mrs weston poor miss taylor that was would suffer it ah sirbut a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a windowcurtain and throw up a sash without its being suspected i have often known it done myself have you indeed sirbless me i never could have supposed it but i live out of the world and am often astonished at what i hear however this does make a difference and perhaps when we come to talk it overbut these sort of things require a good deal of consideration one cannot resolve upon them in a hurry if mr and mrs weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning we may talk it over and see what can be done but unfortunately sir my time is so limited oh interrupted emma there will be plenty of time for talking every thing over there is no hurry at all if it can be contrived to be at the crown papa it will be very convenient for the horses they will be so near their own stable so they will my dear that is a great thing not that james ever complains but it is right to spare our horses when we can if i could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly airedbut is mrs stokes to be trusted i doubt it i do not know her even by sight i can answer for every thing of that nature sir because it will be under mrs westons care mrs weston undertakes to direct the whole there papanow you must be satisfiedour own dear mrs weston who is carefulness itself do not you remember what mr perry said so many years ago when i had the measles if miss taylor undertakes to wrap miss emma up you need not have any fears sir how often have i heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her aye very true mr perry did say so i shall never forget it poor little emma you were very bad with the measles that is you would have been very bad but for perrys great attention he came four times a day for a week he said from the first it was a very good sortwhich was our great comfort but the measles are a dreadful complaint i hope whenever poor isabellas little ones have the measles she will send for perry my father and mrs weston are at the crown at this moment said frank churchill examining the capabilities of the house i left them there and came on to hartfield impatient for your opinion and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot i was desired to say so from both it would be the greatest pleasure to them if you could allow me to attend you there they can do nothing satisfactorily without you emma was most happy to be called to such a council and her father engaging to think it all over while she was gone the two young people set off together without delay for the crown there were mr and mrs weston delighted to see her and receive her approbation very busy and very happy in their different way she in some little distress and he finding every thing perfect emma said she this paper is worse than i expected look in places you see it is dreadfully dirty and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing i could have imagined my dear you are too particular said her husband what does all that signify you will see nothing of it by candlelight it will be as clean as randalls by candlelight we never see any thing of it on our clubnights the ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant men never know when things are dirty or not and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares one perplexity however arose which the gentlemen did not disdain it regarded a supperroom at the time of the ballrooms being built suppers had not been in question and a small cardroom adjoining was the only addition what was to be done this cardroom would be wanted as a cardroom now or if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves still was it not too small for any comfortable supper another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose but it was at the other end of the house and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it this made a difficulty mrs weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage and neither emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper mrs weston proposed having no regular supper merely sandwiches c set out in the little room but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion a private dance without sitting down to supper was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women and mrs weston must not speak of it again she then took another line of expediency and looking into the doubtful room observed i do not think it is so very small we shall not be many you know and mr weston at the same time walking briskly with long steps through the passage was calling out you talk a great deal of the length of this passage my dear it is a mere nothing after all and not the least draught from the stairs i wish said mrs weston one could know which arrangement our guests in general would like best to do what would be most generally pleasing must be our objectif one could but tell what that would be yes very true cried frank very true you want your neighbours opinions i do not wonder at you if one could ascertain what the chief of themthe coles for instance they are not far off shall i call upon them or miss bates she is still nearerand i do not know whether miss bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of the people as any body i think we do want a larger council suppose i go and invite miss bates to join us wellif you please said mrs weston rather hesitating if you think she will be of any use you will get nothing to the purpose from miss bates said emma she will be all delight and gratitude but she will tell you nothing she will not even listen to your questions i see no advantage in consulting miss bates but she is so amusing so extremely amusing i am very fond of hearing miss bates talk and i need not bring the whole family you know here mr weston joined them and on hearing what was proposed gave it his decided approbation aye do frankgo and fetch miss bates and let us end the matter at once she will enjoy the scheme i am sure and i do not know a properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties fetch miss bates we are growing a little too nice she is a standing lesson of how to be happy but fetch them both invite them both both sir can the old lady the old lady no the young lady to be sure i shall think you a great blockhead frank if you bring the aunt without the niece oh i beg your pardon sir i did not immediately recollect undoubtedly if you wish it i will endeavour to persuade them both and away he ran long before he reappeared attending the short neat briskmoving aunt and her elegant niecemrs weston like a sweettempered woman and a good wife had examined the passage again and found the evils of it much less than she had supposed beforeindeed very trifling and here ended the difficulties of decision all the rest in speculation at least was perfectly smooth all the minor arrangements of table and chair lights and music tea and supper made themselves or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any time between mrs weston and mrs stokesevery body invited was certainly to come frank had already written to enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight which could not possibly be refused and a delightful dance it was to be most cordially when miss bates arrived did she agree that it must as a counsellor she was not wanted but as an approver a much safer character she was truly welcome her approbation at once general and minute warm and incessant could not but please and for another halfhour they were all walking to and fro between the different rooms some suggesting some attending and all in happy enjoyment of the future the party did not break up without emmas being positively secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening nor without her overhearing mr weston whisper to his wife he has asked her my dear thats right i knew he would xii one thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to emmaits being fixed for a day within the granted term of frank churchills stay in surry for in spite of mr westons confidence she could not think it so very impossible that the churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight but this was not judged feasible the preparations must take their time nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on and for a few days they must be planning proceeding and hoping in uncertaintyat the riskin her opinion the great risk of its being all in vain enscombe however was gracious gracious in fact if not in word his wish of staying longer evidently did not please but it was not opposed all was safe and prosperous and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another emma being now certain of her ball began to adopt as the next vexation mr knightleys provoking indifference about it either because he did not dance himself or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted he seemed resolved that it should not interest him determined against its exciting any present curiosity or affording him any future amusement to her voluntary communications emma could get no more approving reply than very well if the westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment i have nothing to say against it but that they shall not chuse pleasures for meoh yes i must be there i could not refuse and i will keep as much awake as i can but i would rather be at home looking over william larkinss weeks account much rather i confesspleasure in seeing dancingnot i indeedi never look at iti do not know who doesfine dancing i believe like virtue must be its own reward those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different this emma felt was aimed at her and it made her quite angry it was not in compliment to jane fairfax however that he was so indifferent or so indignant he was not guided by her feelings in reprobating the ball for she enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree it made her animatedopen heartedshe voluntarily said oh miss woodhouse i hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball what a disappointment it would be i do look forward to it i own with very great pleasure it was not to oblige jane fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of william larkins noshe was more and more convinced that mrs weston was quite mistaken in that surmise there was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his sidebut no love alas there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with mr knightley two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the overthrow of every thing a letter arrived from mr churchill to urge his nephews instant return mrs churchill was unwellfar too unwell to do without him she had been in a very suffering state so said her husband when writing to her nephew two days before though from her usual unwillingness to give pain and constant habit of never thinking of herself she had not mentioned it but now she was too ill to trifle and must entreat him to set off for enscombe without delay the substance of this letter was forwarded to emma in a note from mrs weston instantly as to his going it was inevitable he must be gone within a few hours though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt to lessen his repugnance he knew her illnesses they never occurred but for her own convenience mrs weston added that he could only allow himself time to hurry to highbury after breakfast and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him and that he might be expected at hartfield very soon this wretched note was the finale of emmas breakfast when once it had been read there was no doing any thing but lament and exclaim the loss of the ballthe loss of the young manand all that the young man might be feelingit was too wretchedsuch a delightful evening as it would have beenevery body so happy and she and her partner the happiesti said it would be so was the only consolation her fathers feelings were quite distinct he thought principally of mrs churchills illness and wanted to know how she was treated and as for the ball it was shocking to have dear emma disappointed but they would all be safer at home emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared but if this reflected at all upon his impatience his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him he felt the going away almost too much to speak of it his dejection was most evident he sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes and when rousing himself it was only to say of all horrid things leavetaking is the worst but you will come again said emma this will not be your only visit to randalls ahshaking his headthe uncertainty of when i may be able to returni shall try for it with a zealit will be the object of all my thoughts and caresand if my uncle and aunt go to town this springbut i am afraidthey did not stir last springi am afraid it is a custom gone for ever our poor ball must be quite given up ah that ballwhy did we wait for any thingwhy not seize the pleasure at oncehow often is happiness destroyed by preparation foolish preparationyou told us it would be sooh miss woodhouse why are you always so right indeed i am very sorry to be right in this instance i would much rather have been merry than wise if i can come again we are still to have our ball my father depends on it do not forget your engagement emma looked graciously such a fortnight as it has been he continued every day more precious and more delightful than the day beforeevery day making me less fit to bear any other place happy those who can remain at highbury as you do us such ample justice now said emma laughing i will venture to ask whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first do not we rather surpass your expectations i am sure we do i am sure you did not much expect to like us you would not have been so long in coming if you had had a pleasant idea of highbury he laughed rather consciously and though denying the sentiment emma was convinced that it had been so and you must be off this very morning yes my father is to join me here we shall walk back together and i must be off immediately i am almost afraid that every moment will bring him not five minutes to spare even for your friends miss fairfax and miss bates how unlucky miss batess powerful argumentative mind might have strengthened yours yesi have called there passing the door i thought it better it was a right thing to do i went in for three minutes and was detained by miss batess being absent she was out and i felt it impossible not to wait till she came in she is a woman that one may that one must laugh at but that one would not wish to slight it was better to pay my visit then he hesitated got up walked to a window in short said he perhaps miss woodhousei think you can hardly be quite without suspicion he looked at her as if wanting to read her thoughts she hardly knew what to say it seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious which she did not wish forcing herself to speak therefore in the hope of putting it by she calmly said you are quite in the right it was most natural to pay your visit then he was silent she believed he was looking at her probably reflecting on what she had said and trying to understand the manner she heard him sigh it was natural for him to feel that he had cause to sigh he could not believe her to be encouraging him a few awkward moments passed and he sat down again and in a more determined manner said it was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to hartfield my regard for hartfield is most warm he stopt again rose again and seemed quite embarrassedhe was more in love with her than emma had supposed and who can say how it might have ended if his father had not made his appearance mr woodhouse soon followed and the necessity of exertion made him composed a very few minutes more however completed the present trial mr weston always alert when business was to be done and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable as of foreseeing any that was doubtful said it was time to go and the young man though he might and did sigh could not but agree to take leave i shall hear about you all said he that is my chief consolation i shall hear of every thing that is going on among you i have engaged mrs weston to correspond with me she has been so kind as to promise it oh the blessing of a female correspondent when one is really interested in the absentshe will tell me every thing in her letters i shall be at dear highbury again a very friendly shake of the hand a very earnest goodbye closed the speech and the door had soon shut out frank churchill short had been the noticeshort their meeting he was gone and emma felt so sorry to part and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry and feeling it too much it was a sad change they had been meeting almost every day since his arrival certainly his being at randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeksindescribable spirit the idea the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought the assurance of his attentions his liveliness his manners it had been a very happy fortnight and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of hartfield days to complete every other recommendation he had almost told her that he loved her what strength or what constancy of affection he might be subject to was another point but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration a conscious preference of herself and this persuasion joined to all the rest made her think that she must be a little in love with him in spite of every previous determination against it i certainly must said she this sensation of listlessness weariness stupidity this disinclination to sit down and employ myself this feeling of every things being dull and insipid about the house i must be in love i should be the oddest creature in the world if i were notfor a few weeks at least well evil to some is always good to others i shall have many fellowmourners for the ball if not for frank churchill but mr knightley will be happy he may spend the evening with his dear william larkins now if he likes mr knightley however shewed no triumphant happiness he could not say that he was sorry on his own account his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had but he said and very steadily that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others and with considerable kindness added you emma who have so few opportunities of dancing you are really out of luck you are very much out of luck it was some days before she saw jane fairfax to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change but when they did meet her composure was odious she had been particularly unwell however suffering from headache to a degree which made her aunt declare that had the ball taken place she did not think jane could have attended it and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of illhealth xiii emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love her ideas only varied as to the how much at first she thought it was a good deal and afterwards but little she had great pleasure in hearing frank churchill talked of and for his sake greater pleasure than ever in seeing mr and mrs weston she was very often thinking of him and quite impatient for a letter that she might know how he was how were his spirits how was his aunt and what was the chance of his coming to randalls again this spring but on the other hand she could not admit herself to be unhappy nor after the first morning to be less disposed for employment than usual she was still busy and cheerful and pleasing as he was she could yet imagine him to have faults and farther though thinking of him so much and as she sat drawing or working forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment fancying interesting dialogues and inventing elegant letters the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she refused him their affection was always to subside into friendship every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting but still they were to part when she became sensible of this it struck her that she could not be very much in love for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father never to marry a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings i do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice said shein not one of all my clever replies my delicate negatives is there any allusion to making a sacrifice i do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness so much the better i certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than i do i am quite enough in love i should be sorry to be more upon the whole she was equally contented with her view of his feelings he is undoubtedly very much in loveevery thing denotes itvery much in love indeedand when he comes again if his affection continue i must be on my guard not to encourage itit would be most inexcusable to do otherwise as my own mind is quite made up not that i imagine he can think i have been encouraging him hitherto no if he had believed me at all to share his feelings he would not have been so wretched could he have thought himself encouraged his looks and language at parting would have been differentstill however i must be on my guard this is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is but i do not know that i expect it will i do not look upon him to be quite the sort of mani do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancyhis feelings are warm but i can imagine them rather changeableevery consideration of the subject in short makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involvedi shall do very well again after a little whileand then it will be a good thing over for they say every body is in love once in their lives and i shall have been let off easily when his letter to mrs weston arrived emma had the perusal of it and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations and think she had undervalued their strength it was a long wellwritten letter giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings expressing all the affection gratitude and respect which was natural and honourable and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive with spirit and precision no suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern it was the language of real feeling towards mrs weston and the transition from highbury to enscombe the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of proprietythe charm of her own name was not wanting miss woodhouse appeared more than once and never without a something of pleasing connexion either a compliment to her taste or a remembrance of what she had said and in the very last time of its meeting her eye unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these wordsi had not a spare moment on tuesday as you know for miss woodhouses beautiful little friend pray make my excuses and adieus to her this emma could not doubt was all for herself harriet was remembered only from being her friend his information and prospects as to enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated mrs churchill was recovering and he dared not yet even in his own imagination fix a time for coming to randalls again gratifying however and stimulative as was the letter in the material part its sentiments she yet found when it was folded up and returned to mrs weston that it had not added any lasting warmth that she could still do without the writer and that he must learn to do without her her intentions were unchanged her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness his recollection of harriet and the words which clothed it the beautiful little friend suggested to her the idea of harriets succeeding her in his affections was it impossiblenoharriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner and all the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favourfor harriet it would be advantageous and delightful indeed i must not dwell upon it said shei must not think of it i know the danger of indulging such speculations but stranger things have happened and when we cease to care for each other as we do now it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which i can already look forward to with pleasure it was well to have a comfort in store on harriets behalf though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom for evil in that quarter was at hand as frank churchills arrival had succeeded mr eltons engagement in the conversation of highbury as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first so now upon frank churchills disappearance mr eltons concerns were assuming the most irresistible formhis weddingday was named he would soon be among them again mr elton and his bride there was hardly time to talk over the first letter from enscombe before mr elton and his bride was in every bodys mouth and frank churchill was forgotten emma grew sick at the sound she had had three weeks of happy exemption from mr elton and harriets mind she had been willing to hope had been lately gaining strength with mr westons ball in view at least there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approachnew carriage bellringing and all poor harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that emma could give emma felt that she could not do too much for her that harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect for ever agreed to without being able to make their opinions the same harriet listened submissively and said it was very trueit was just as miss woodhouse describedit was not worth while to think about themand she would not think about them any longer but no change of subject could avail and the next halfhour saw her as anxious and restless about the eltons as before at last emma attacked her on another ground your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about mr eltons marrying harriet is the strongest reproach you can make me you could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake i fell into it was all my doing i know i have not forgotten it i assure youdeceived myself i did very miserably deceive youand it will be a painful reflection to me for ever do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation emma continued i have not said exert yourself harriet for my sake think less talk less of mr elton for my sake because for your own sake rather i would wish it to be done for the sake of what is more important than my comfort a habit of selfcommand in you a consideration of what is your duty an attention to propriety an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others to save your health and credit and restore your tranquillity these are the motives which i have been pressing on you they are very importantand sorry i am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them my being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration i want you to save yourself from greater pain perhaps i may sometimes have felt that harriet would not forget what was dueor rather what would be kind by me this appeal to her affections did more than all the rest the idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for miss woodhouse whom she really loved extremely made her wretched for a while and when the violence of grief was comforted away still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably you who have been the best friend i ever had in my lifewant gratitude to younobody is equal to youi care for nobody as i do for youoh miss woodhouse how ungrateful i have been such expressions assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do made emma feel that she had never loved harriet so well nor valued her affection so highly before there is no charm equal to tenderness of heart said she afterwards to herself there is nothing to be compared to it warmth and tenderness of heart with an affectionate open manner will beat all the clearness of head in the world for attraction i am sure it will it is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally belovedwhich gives isabella all her popularityi have it notbut i know how to prize and respect itharriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives dear harrieti would not change you for the clearestheaded longestsighted bestjudging female breathing oh the coldness of a jane fairfaxharriet is worth a hundred suchand for a wifea sensible mans wifeit is invaluable i mention no names but happy the man who changes emma for harriet xiv mrs elton was first seen at church but though devotion might be interrupted curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew and it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid to settle whether she were very pretty indeed or only rather pretty or not pretty at all emma had feelings less of curiosity than of pride or propriety to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects and she made a point of harriets going with her that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible she could not enter the house again could not be in the same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago to lace up her boot without recollecting a thousand vexatious thoughts would recur compliments charades and horrible blunders and it was not to be supposed that poor harriet should not be recollecting too but she behaved very well and was only rather pale and silent the visit was of course short and there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it that emma would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady and on no account to give one beyond the nothingmeaning terms of being elegantly dressed and very pleasing she did not really like her she would not be in a hurry to find fault but she suspected that there was no eleganceease but not elegance she was almost sure that for a young woman a stranger a bride there was too much ease her person was rather good her face not unpretty but neither feature nor air nor voice nor manner were elegant emma thought at least it would turn out so as for mr elton his manners did not appearbut no she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners it was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it the woman was better off she might have the assistance of fine clothes and the privilege of bashfulness but the man had only his own good sense to depend on and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor mr elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married the woman he had wanted to marry and the woman whom he had been expected to marry she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise and to be as much affectedly and as little really easy as could be well miss woodhouse said harriet when they had quitted the house and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin well miss woodhouse with a gentle sigh what do you think of heris not she very charming there was a little hesitation in emmas answer oh yesverya very pleasing young woman i think her beautiful quite beautiful very nicely dressed indeed a remarkably elegant gown i am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love oh nothere is nothing to surprize one at alla pretty fortune and she came in his way i dare say returned harriet sighing again i dare say she was very much attached to him perhaps she might but it is not every mans fate to marry the woman who loves him best miss hawkins perhaps wanted a home and thought this the best offer she was likely to have yes said harriet earnestly and well she might nobody could ever have a better well i wish them happy with all my heart and now miss woodhouse i do not think i shall mind seeing them again he is just as superior as everbut being married you know it is quite a different thing no indeed miss woodhouse you need not be afraid i can sit and admire him now without any great misery to know that he has not thrown himself away is such a comfortshe does seem a charming young woman just what he deserves happy creature he called her augusta how delightful when the visit was returned emma made up her mind she could then see more and judge better from harriets happening not to be at hartfield and her fathers being present to engage mr elton she had a quarter of an hour of the ladys conversation to herself and could composedly attend to her and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that mrs elton was a vain woman extremely well satisfied with herself and thinking much of her own importance that she meant to shine and be very superior but with manners which had been formed in a bad school pert and familiar that all her notions were drawn from one set of people and one style of living that if not foolish she was ignorant and that her society would certainly do mr elton no good harriet would have been a better match if not wise or refined herself she would have connected him with those who were but miss hawkins it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit had been the best of her own set the rich brotherinlaw near bristol was the pride of the alliance and his place and his carriages were the pride of him the very first subject after being seated was maple grove my brother mr sucklings seata comparison of hartfield to maple grove the grounds of hartfield were small but neat and pretty and the house was modern and wellbuilt mrs elton seemed most favourably impressed by the size of the room the entrance and all that she could see or imagine very like maple grove indeedshe was quite struck by the likenessthat room was the very shape and size of the morningroom at maple grove her sisters favourite roommr elton was appealed towas not it astonishingly likeshe could really almost fancy herself at maple grove and the staircaseyou know as i came in i observed how very like the staircase was placed exactly in the same part of the house i really could not help exclaiming i assure you miss woodhouse it is very delightful to me to be reminded of a place i am so extremely partial to as maple grove i have spent so many happy months there with a little sigh of sentiment a charming place undoubtedly every body who sees it is struck by its beauty but to me it has been quite a home whenever you are transplanted like me miss woodhouse you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind i always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony emma made as slight a reply as she could but it was fully sufficient for mrs elton who only wanted to be talking herself so extremely like maple grove and it is not merely the housethe grounds i assure you as far as i could observe are strikingly like the laurels at maple grove are in the same profusion as here and stand very much in the same wayjust across the lawn and i had a glimpse of a fine large tree with a bench round it which put me so exactly in mind my brother and sister will be enchanted with this place people who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style emma doubted the truth of this sentiment she had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else but it was not worth while to attack an error so doubledyed and therefore only said in reply when you have seen more of this country i am afraid you will think you have overrated hartfield surry is full of beauties oh yes i am quite aware of that it is the garden of england you know surry is the garden of england yes but we must not rest our claims on that distinction many counties i believe are called the garden of england as well as surry no i fancy not replied mrs elton with a most satisfied smile i never heard any county but surry called so emma was silenced my brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring or summer at farthest continued mrs elton and that will be our time for exploring while they are with us we shall explore a great deal i dare say they will have their barouchelandau of course which holds four perfectly and therefore without saying any thing of our carriage we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well they would hardly come in their chaise i think at that season of the year indeed when the time draws on i shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouchelandau it will be so very much preferable when people come into a beautiful country of this sort you know miss woodhouse one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible and mr suckling is extremely fond of exploring we explored to kingsweston twice last summer in that way most delightfully just after their first having the barouchelandau you have many parties of that kind here i suppose miss woodhouse every summer no not immediately here we are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of and we are a very quiet set of people i believe more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure ah there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort nobody can be more devoted to home than i am i was quite a proverb for it at maple grove many a time has selina said when she has been going to bristol i really cannot get this girl to move from the house i absolutely must go in by myself though i hate being stuck up in the barouchelandau without a companion but augusta i believe with her own goodwill would never stir beyond the park paling many a time has she said so and yet i am no advocate for entire seclusion i think on the contrary when people shut themselves up entirely from society it is a very bad thing and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree without living in it either too much or too little i perfectly understand your situation however miss woodhouselooking towards mr woodhouse your fathers state of health must be a great drawback why does not he try bathindeed he should let me recommend bath to you i assure you i have no doubt of its doing mr woodhouse good my father tried it more than once formerly but without receiving any benefit and mr perry whose name i dare say is not unknown to you does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now ah thats a great pity for i assure you miss woodhouse where the waters do agree it is quite wonderful the relief they give in my bath life i have seen such instances of it and it is so cheerful a place that it could not fail of being of use to mr woodhouses spirits which i understand are sometimes much depressed and as to its recommendations to you i fancy i need not take much pains to dwell on them the advantages of bath to the young are pretty generally understood it would be a charming introduction for you who have lived so secluded a life and i could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place a line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance and my particular friend mrs partridge the lady i have always resided with when in bath would be most happy to shew you any attentions and would be the very person for you to go into public with it was as much as emma could bear without being impolite the idea of her being indebted to mrs elton for what was called an introductionof her going into public under the auspices of a friend of mrs eltonsprobably some vulgar dashing widow who with the help of a boarder just made a shift to livethe dignity of miss woodhouse of hartfield was sunk indeed she restrained herself however from any of the reproofs she could have given and only thanked mrs elton coolly but their going to bath was quite out of the question and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father and then to prevent farther outrage and indignation changed the subject directly i do not ask whether you are musical mrs elton upon these occasions a ladys character generally precedes her and highbury has long known that you are a superior performer oh no indeed i must protest against any such idea a superior performervery far from it i assure you consider from how partial a quarter your information came i am doatingly fond of musicpassionately fondand my friends say i am not entirely devoid of taste but as to any thing else upon my honour my performance is mediocre to the last degree you miss woodhouse i well know play delightfully i assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction comfort and delight to me to hear what a musical society i am got into i absolutely cannot do without music it is a necessary of life to me and having always been used to a very musical society both at maple grove and in bath it would have been a most serious sacrifice i honestly said as much to mr e when he was speaking of my future home and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable and the inferiority of the house tooknowing what i had been accustomed toof course he was not wholly without apprehension when he was speaking of it in that way i honestly said that the world i could give upparties balls playsfor i had no fear of retirement blessed with so many resources within myself the world was not necessary to me i could do very well without it to those who had no resources it was a different thing but my resources made me quite independent and as to smallersized rooms than i had been used to i really could not give it a thought i hoped i was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description certainly i had been accustomed to every luxury at maple grove but i did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness nor were spacious apartments but said i to be quite honest i do not think i can live without something of a musical society i condition for nothing else but without music life would be a blank to me we cannot suppose said emma smiling that mr elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very musical society in highbury and i hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned in consideration of the motive no indeed i have no doubts at all on that head i am delighted to find myself in such a circle i hope we shall have many sweet little concerts together i think miss woodhouse you and i must establish a musical club and have regular weekly meetings at your house or ours will not it be a good plan if we exert ourselves i think we shall not be long in want of allies something of that nature would be particularly desirable for me as an inducement to keep me in practice for married women you knowthere is a sad story against them in general they are but too apt to give up music but you who are so extremely fond of itthere can be no danger surely i should hope not but really when i look around among my acquaintance i tremble selina has entirely given up musicnever touches the instrumentthough she played sweetly and the same may be said of mrs jeffereysclara partridge that wasand of the two milmans now mrs bird and mrs james cooper and of more than i can enumerate upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright i used to be quite angry with selina but really i begin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call her attention i believe i was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper but every thing of that kind said emma will soon be in so regular a train well said mrs elton laughing we shall see emma finding her so determined upon neglecting her music had nothing more to say and after a moments pause mrs elton chose another subject we have been calling at randalls said she and found them both at home and very pleasant people they seem to be i like them extremely mr weston seems an excellent creaturequite a firstrate favourite with me already i assure you and she appears so truly goodthere is something so motherly and kindhearted about her that it wins upon one directly she was your governess i think emma was almost too much astonished to answer but mrs elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on having understood as much i was rather astonished to find her so very ladylike but she is really quite the gentlewoman mrs westons manners said emma were always particularly good their propriety simplicity and elegance would make them the safest model for any young woman and who do you think came in while we were there emma was quite at a loss the tone implied some old acquaintanceand how could she possibly guess knightley continued mrs elton knightley himselfwas not it luckyfor not being within when he called the other day i had never seen him before and of course as so particular a friend of mr es i had a great curiosity my friend knightley had been so often mentioned that i was really impatient to see him and i must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend knightley is quite the gentleman i like him very much decidedly i think a very gentlemanlike man happily it was now time to be gone they were off and emma could breathe insufferable woman was her immediate exclamation worse than i had supposed absolutely insufferable knightleyi could not have believed it knightleynever seen him in her life before and call him knightleyand discover that he is a gentleman a little upstart vulgar being with her mr e and her caro sposo and her resources and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery actually to discover that mr knightley is a gentleman i doubt whether he will return the compliment and discover her to be a lady i could not have believed it and to propose that she and i should unite to form a musical club one would fancy we were bosom friends and mrs westonastonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman worse and worse i never met with her equal much beyond my hopes harriet is disgraced by any comparison oh what would frank churchill say to her if he were here how angry and how diverted he would be ah there i amthinking of him directly always the first person to be thought of how i catch myself out frank churchill comes as regularly into my mind all this ran so glibly through her thoughts that by the time her father had arranged himself after the bustle of the eltons departure and was ready to speak she was very tolerably capable of attending well my dear he deliberately began considering we never saw her before she seems a very pretty sort of young lady and i dare say she was very much pleased with you she speaks a little too quick a little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear but i believe i am nice i do not like strange voices and nobody speaks like you and poor miss taylor however she seems a very obliging prettybehaved young lady and no doubt will make him a very good wife though i think he had better not have married i made the best excuses i could for not having been able to wait on him and mrs elton on this happy occasion i said that i hoped i should in the course of the summer but i ought to have gone before not to wait upon a bride is very remiss ah it shews what a sad invalid i am but i do not like the corner into vicarage lane i dare say your apologies were accepted sir mr elton knows you yes but a young ladya bridei ought to have paid my respects to her if possible it was being very deficient but my dear papa you are no friend to matrimony and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a bride it ought to be no recommendation to you it is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them no my dear i never encouraged any body to marry but i would always wish to pay every proper attention to a ladyand a bride especially is never to be neglected more is avowedly due to her a bride you know my dear is always the first in company let the others be who they may well papa if this is not encouragement to marry i do not know what is and i should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanitybaits for poor young ladies my dear you do not understand me this is a matter of mere common politeness and goodbreeding and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry emma had done her father was growing nervous and could not understand her her mind returned to mrs eltons offences and long very long did they occupy her xv emma was not required by any subsequent discovery to retract her ill opinion of mrs elton her observation had been pretty correct such as mrs elton appeared to her on this second interview such she appeared whenever they met againselfimportant presuming familiar ignorant and illbred she had a little beauty and a little accomplishment but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood and conceived miss hawkins to have held such a place in society as mrs eltons consequence only could surpass there was no reason to suppose mr elton thought at all differently from his wife he seemed not merely happy with her but proud he had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to highbury as not even miss woodhouse could equal and the greater part of her new acquaintance disposed to commend or not in the habit of judging following the lead of miss batess goodwill or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself were very well satisfied so that mrs eltons praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do unimpeded by miss woodhouse who readily continued her first contribution and talked with a good grace of her being very pleasant and very elegantly dressed in one respect mrs elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first her feelings altered towards emmaoffended probably by the little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with she drew back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant and though the effect was agreeable the illwill which produced it was necessarily increasing emmas dislike her manners tooand mr eltons were unpleasant towards harriet they were sneering and negligent emma hoped it must rapidly work harriets cure but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very muchit was not to be doubted that poor harriets attachment had been an offering to conjugal unreserve and her own share in the story under a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him had in all likelihood been given also she was of course the object of their joint dislikewhen they had nothing else to say it must be always easy to begin abusing miss woodhouse and the enmity which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of harriet mrs elton took a great fancy to jane fairfax and from the first not merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to recommend the other but from the very first and she was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable admirationbut without solicitation or plea or privilege she must be wanting to assist and befriend herbefore emma had forfeited her confidence and about the third time of their meeting she heard all mrs eltons knighterrantry on the subject jane fairfax is absolutely charming miss woodhousei quite rave about jane fairfaxa sweet interesting creature so mild and ladylikeand with such talentsi assure you i think she has very extraordinary talents i do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well i know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point oh she is absolutely charming you will laugh at my warmthbut upon my word i talk of nothing but jane fairfaxand her situation is so calculated to affect onemiss woodhouse we must exert ourselves and endeavour to do something for her we must bring her forward such talent as hers must not be suffered to remain unknowni dare say you have heard those charming lines of the poet full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its fragrance on the desert air we must not allow them to be verified in sweet jane fairfax i cannot think there is any danger of it was emmas calm answerand when you are better acquainted with miss fairfaxs situation and understand what her home has been with colonel and mrs campbell i have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown oh but dear miss woodhouse she is now in such retirement such obscurity so thrown awaywhatever advantages she may have enjoyed with the campbells are so palpably at an end and i think she feels it i am sure she does she is very timid and silent one can see that she feels the want of encouragement i like her the better for it i must confess it is a recommendation to me i am a great advocate for timidityand i am sure one does not often meet with itbut in those who are at all inferior it is extremely prepossessing oh i assure you jane fairfax is a very delightful character and interests me more than i can express you appear to feel a great dealbut i am not aware how you or any of miss fairfaxs acquaintance here any of those who have known her longer than yourself can shew her any other attention than my dear miss woodhouse a vast deal may be done by those who dare to act you and i need not be afraid if we set the example many will follow it as far as they can though all have not our situations we have carriages to fetch and convey her home and we live in a style which could not make the addition of jane fairfax at any time the least inconvenienti should be extremely displeased if wright were to send us up such a dinner as could make me regret having asked more than jane fairfax to partake of it i have no idea of that sort of thing it is not likely that i should considering what i have been used to my greatest danger perhaps in housekeeping may be quite the other way in doing too much and being too careless of expense maple grove will probably be my model more than it ought to befor we do not at all affect to equal my brother mr suckling in incomehowever my resolution is taken as to noticing jane fairfaxi shall certainly have her very often at my house shall introduce her wherever i can shall have musical parties to draw out her talents and shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation my acquaintance is so very extensive that i have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her shortlyi shall introduce her of course very particularly to my brother and sister when they come to us i am sure they will like her extremely and when she gets a little acquainted with them her fears will completely wear off for there really is nothing in the manners of either but what is highly conciliatingi shall have her very often indeed while they are with me and i dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the barouchelandau in some of our exploring parties poor jane fairfaxthought emmayou have not deserved this you may have done wrong with regard to mr dixon but this is a punishment beyond what you can have meritedthe kindness and protection of mrs eltonjane fairfax and jane fairfax heavens let me not suppose that she dares go about emma woodhouseing mebut upon my honour there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that womans tongue emma had not to listen to such paradings againto any so exclusively addressed to herselfso disgustingly decorated with a dear miss woodhouse the change on mrs eltons side soon afterwards appeared and she was left in peaceneither forced to be the very particular friend of mrs elton nor under mrs eltons guidance the very active patroness of jane fairfax and only sharing with others in a general way in knowing what was felt what was meditated what was done she looked on with some amusementmiss batess gratitude for mrs eltons attentions to jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth she was quite one of her worthiesthe most amiable affable delightful womanjust as accomplished and condescending as mrs elton meant to be considered emmas only surprize was that jane fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate mrs elton as she seemed to do she heard of her walking with the eltons sitting with the eltons spending a day with the eltons this was astonishingshe could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of miss fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the vicarage had to offer she is a riddle quite a riddle said sheto chuse to remain here month after month under privations of every sort and now to chuse the mortification of mrs eltons notice and the penury of her conversation rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real generous affection jane had come to highbury professedly for three months the campbells were gone to ireland for three months but now the campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till midsummer and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there according to miss batesit all came from hermrs dixon had written most pressingly would jane but go means were to be found servants sent friends contrivedno travelling difficulty allowed to exist but still she had declined it she must have some motive more powerful than appears for refusing this invitation was emmas conclusion she must be under some sort of penance inflicted either by the campbells or herself there is great fear great caution great resolution somewhereshe is not to be with the dixons the decree is issued by somebody but why must she consent to be with the eltonshere is quite a separate puzzle upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject before the few who knew her opinion of mrs elton mrs weston ventured this apology for jane we cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the vicarage my dear emmabut it is better than being always at home her aunt is a good creature but as a constant companion must be very tiresome we must consider what miss fairfax quits before we condemn her taste for what she goes to you are right mrs weston said mr knightley warmly miss fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of mrs elton could she have chosen with whom to associate she would not have chosen her but with a reproachful smile at emma she receives attentions from mrs elton which nobody else pays her emma felt that mrs weston was giving her a momentary glance and she was herself struck by his warmth with a faint blush she presently replied such attentions as mrs eltons i should have imagined would rather disgust than gratify miss fairfax mrs eltons invitations i should have imagined any thing but inviting i should not wonder said mrs weston if miss fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination by her aunts eagerness in accepting mrs eltons civilities for her poor miss bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated in spite of the very natural wish of a little change both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again and after a few minutes silence he said another thing must be taken into consideration toomrs elton does not talk to miss fairfax as she speaks of her we all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou the plainest spoken amongst us we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each othera something more early implanted we cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before we feel things differently and besides the operation of this as a general principle you may be sure that miss fairfax awes mrs elton by her superiority both of mind and manner and that face to face mrs elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to such a woman as jane fairfax probably never fell in mrs eltons way beforeand no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action if not in consciousness i know how highly you think of jane fairfax said emma little henry was in her thoughts and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say yes he replied any body may know how highly i think of her and yet said emma beginning hastily and with an arch look but soon stoppingit was better however to know the worst at onceshe hurried onand yet perhaps you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is the extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other mr knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters and either the exertion of getting them together or some other cause brought the colour into his face as he answered oh are you therebut you are miserably behindhand mr cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago he stoppedemma felt her foot pressed by mrs weston and did not herself know what to think in a moment he went on that will never be however i can assure you miss fairfax i dare say would not have me if i were to ask herand i am very sure i shall never ask her emma returned her friends pressure with interest and was pleased enough to exclaim you are not vain mr knightley i will say that for you he seemed hardly to hear her he was thoughtfuland in a manner which shewed him not pleased soon afterwards said so you have been settling that i should marry jane fairfax no indeed i have not you have scolded me too much for matchmaking for me to presume to take such a liberty with you what i said just now meant nothing one says those sort of things of course without any idea of a serious meaning oh no upon my word i have not the smallest wish for your marrying jane fairfax or jane any body you would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way if you were married mr knightley was thoughtful again the result of his reverie was no emma i do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprizei never had a thought of her in that way i assure you and soon afterwards jane fairfax is a very charming young womanbut not even jane fairfax is perfect she has a fault she has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault well said she and you soon silenced mr cole i suppose yes very soon he gave me a quiet hint i told him he was mistaken he asked my pardon and said no more cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours in that respect how unlike dear mrs elton who wants to be wiser and wittier than all the world i wonder how she speaks of the coleswhat she calls them how can she find any appellation for them deep enough in familiar vulgarity she calls you knightleywhat can she do for mr cole and so i am not to be surprized that jane fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her mrs weston your argument weighs most with me i can much more readily enter into the temptation of getting away from miss bates than i can believe in the triumph of miss fairfaxs mind over mrs elton i have no faith in mrs eltons acknowledging herself the inferior in thought word or deed or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of goodbreeding i cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor with praise encouragement and offers of service that she will not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions from the procuring her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring parties which are to take place in the barouchelandau jane fairfax has feeling said mr knightleyi do not accuse her of want of feeling her sensibilities i suspect are strongand her temper excellent in its power of forbearance patience selfcontrol but it wants openness she is reserved more reserved i think than she used to beand i love an open temper notill cole alluded to my supposed attachment it had never entered my head i saw jane fairfax and conversed with her with admiration and pleasure alwaysbut with no thought beyond well mrs weston said emma triumphantly when he left them what do you say now to mr knightleys marrying jane fairfax why really dear emma i say that he is so very much occupied by the idea of not being in love with her that i should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last do not beat me xvi every body in and about highbury who had ever visited mr elton was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage dinnerparties and eveningparties were made for him and his lady and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day i see how it is said she i see what a life i am to lead among you upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated we really seem quite the fashion if this is living in the country it is nothing very formidable from monday next to saturday i assure you we have not a disengaged daya woman with fewer resources than i have need not have been at a loss no invitation came amiss to her her bath habits made eveningparties perfectly natural to her and maple grove had given her a taste for dinners she was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms at the poor attempt at routcakes and there being no ice in the highbury cardparties mrs bates mrs perry mrs goddard and others were a good deal behindhand in knowledge of the world but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to be arranged in the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very superior partyin which her cardtables should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true styleand more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour and in the proper order emma in the meanwhile could not be satisfied without a dinner at hartfield for the eltons they must not do less than others or she should be exposed to odious suspicions and imagined capable of pitiful resentment a dinner there must be after emma had talked about it for ten minutes mr woodhouse felt no unwillingness and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him the persons to be invited required little thought besides the eltons it must be the westons and mr knightley so far it was all of courseand it was hardly less inevitable that poor little harriet must be asked to make the eighthbut this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction and on many accounts emma was particularly pleased by harriets begging to be allowed to decline it she would rather not be in his company more than she could help she was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together without feeling uncomfortable if miss woodhouse would not be displeased she would rather stay at home it was precisely what emma would have wished had she deemed it possible enough for wishing she was delighted with the fortitude of her little friendfor fortitude she knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home and she could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth jane fairfax since her last conversation with mrs weston and mr knightley she was more consciencestricken about jane fairfax than she had often beenmr knightleys words dwelt with her he had said that jane fairfax received attentions from mrs elton which nobody else paid her this is very true said she at least as far as relates to me which was all that was meantand it is very shamefulof the same ageand always knowing heri ought to have been more her friendshe will never like me now i have neglected her too long but i will shew her greater attention than i have done every invitation was successful they were all disengaged and all happythe preparatory interest of this dinner however was not yet over a circumstance rather unlucky occurred the two eldest little knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the spring and their papa now proposed bringing them and staying one whole day at hartfieldwhich one day would be the very day of this partyhis professional engagements did not allow of his being put off but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening so mr woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bearand here would be a ninthand emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come even to hartfield for fortyeight hours without falling in with a dinnerparty she comforted her father better than she could comfort herself by representing that though he certainly would make them nine yet he always said so little that the increase of noise would be very immaterial she thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother the event was more favourable to mr woodhouse than to emma john knightley came but mr weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day he might be able to join them in the evening but certainly not to dinner mr woodhouse was quite at ease and the seeing him so with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate removed the chief of even emmas vexation the day came the party were punctually assembled and mr john knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner he was talking to miss fairfax mrs elton as elegant as lace and pearls could make her he looked at in silencewanting only to observe enough for isabellas informationbut miss fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl and he could talk to her he had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys when it had been just beginning to rain it was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject and he said i hope you did not venture far miss fairfax this morning or i am sure you must have been wetwe scarcely got home in time i hope you turned directly i went only to the postoffice said she and reached home before the rain was much it is my daily errand i always fetch the letters when i am here it saves trouble and is a something to get me out a walk before breakfast does me good not a walk in the rain i should imagine no but it did not absolutely rain when i set out mr john knightley smiled and replied that is to say you chose to have your walk for you were not six yards from your own door when i had the pleasure of meeting you and henry and john had seen more drops than they could count long before the postoffice has a great charm at one period of our lives when you have lived to my age you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for there was a little blush and then this answer i must not hope to be ever situated as you are in the midst of every dearest connexion and therefore i cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent about letters indifferent oh noi never conceived you could become indifferent letters are no matter of indifference they are generally a very positive curse you are speaking of letters of business mine are letters of friendship i have often thought them the worst of the two replied he coolly business you know may bring money but friendship hardly ever does ah you are not serious now i know mr john knightley too welli am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body i can easily believe that letters are very little to you much less than to me but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference it is not age but situation you have every body dearest to you always at hand i probably never shall again and therefore till i have outlived all my affections a postoffice i think must always have power to draw me out in worse weather than today when i talked of your being altered by time by the progress of years said john knightley i meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings i consider one as including the other time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circlebut that is not the change i had in view for you as an old friend you will allow me to hope miss fairfax that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as i have it was kindly said and very far from giving offence a pleasant thank you seemed meant to laugh it off but a blush a quivering lip a tear in the eye shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh her attention was now claimed by mr woodhouse who being according to his custom on such occasions making the circle of his guests and paying his particular compliments to the ladies was ending with herand with all his mildest urbanity said i am very sorry to hear miss fairfax of your being out this morning in the rain young ladies should take care of themselvesyoung ladies are delicate plants they should take care of their health and their complexion my dear did you change your stockings yes sir i did indeed and i am very much obliged by your kind solicitude about me my dear miss fairfax young ladies are very sure to be cared fori hope your good grandmama and aunt are well they are some of my very old friends i wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour you do us a great deal of honour today i am sure my daughter and i are both highly sensible of your goodness and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at hartfield the kindhearted polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty and made every fair lady welcome and easy by this time the walk in the rain had reached mrs elton and her remonstrances now opened upon jane my dear jane what is this i heargoing to the postoffice in the rainthis must not be i assure youyou sad girl how could you do such a thingit is a sign i was not there to take care of you jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold oh do not tell me you really are a very sad girl and do not know how to take care of yourselfto the postoffice indeed mrs weston did you ever hear the like you and i must positively exert our authority my advice said mrs weston kindly and persuasively i certainly do feel tempted to give miss fairfax you must not run such risksliable as you have been to severe colds indeed you ought to be particularly careful especially at this time of year the spring i always think requires more than common care better wait an hour or two or even half a day for your letters than run the risk of bringing on your cough again now do not you feel that you had yes i am sure you are much too reasonable you look as if you would not do such a thing again oh she shall not do such a thing again eagerly rejoined mrs elton we will not allow her to do such a thing againand nodding significantlythere must be some arrangement made there must indeed i shall speak to mr e the man who fetches our letters every morning one of our men i forget his name shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you that will obviate all difficulties you know and from us i really think my dear jane you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation you are extremely kind said jane but i cannot give up my early walk i am advised to be out of doors as much as i can i must walk somewhere and the postoffice is an object and upon my word i have scarcely ever had a bad morning before my dear jane say no more about it the thing is determined that is laughing affectedly as far as i can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master you know mrs weston you and i must be cautious how we express ourselves but i do flatter myself my dear jane that my influence is not entirely worn out if i meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore consider that point as settled excuse me said jane earnestly i cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement so needlessly troublesome to your servant if the errand were not a pleasure to me it could be done as it always is when i am not here by my grandmamas oh my dear but so much as patty has to doand it is a kindness to employ our men jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered but instead of answering she began speaking again to mr john knightley the postoffice is a wonderful establishment said shethe regularity and despatch of it if one thinks of all that it has to do and all that it does so well it is really astonishing it is certainly very well regulated so seldom that any negligence or blunder appears so seldom that a letter among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom is even carried wrongand not one in a million i suppose actually lost and when one considers the variety of hands and of bad hands too that are to be deciphered it increases the wonder the clerks grow expert from habitthey must begin with some quickness of sight and hand and exercise improves them if you want any farther explanation continued he smiling they are paid for it that is the key to a great deal of capacity the public pays and must be served well the varieties of handwriting were farther talked of and the usual observations made i have heard it asserted said john knightley that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family and where the same master teaches it is natural enough but for that reason i should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females for boys have very little teaching after an early age and scramble into any hand they can get isabella and emma i think do write very much alike i have not always known their writing apart yes said his brother hesitatingly there is a likeness i know what you meanbut emmas hand is the strongest isabella and emma both write beautifully said mr woodhouse and always did and so does poor mrs westonwith half a sigh and half a smile at her i never saw any gentlemans handwritingemma began looking also at mrs weston but stopped on perceiving that mrs weston was attending to some one elseand the pause gave her time to reflect now how am i going to introduce himam i unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phraseyour yorkshire friendyour correspondent in yorkshirethat would be the way i suppose if i were very badno i can pronounce his name without the smallest distress i certainly get better and betternow for it mrs weston was disengaged and emma began againmr frank churchill writes one of the best gentlemans hands i ever saw i do not admire it said mr knightley it is too smallwants strength it is like a womans writing this was not submitted to by either lady they vindicated him against the base aspersion no it by no means wanted strengthit was not a large hand but very clear and certainly strong had not mrs weston any letter about her to produce no she had heard from him very lately but having answered the letter had put it away if we were in the other room said emma if i had my writingdesk i am sure i could produce a specimen i have a note of hisdo not you remember mrs weston employing him to write for you one day he chose to say he was employed well well i have that note and can shew it after dinner to convince mr knightley oh when a gallant young man like mr frank churchill said mr knightley dryly writes to a fair lady like miss woodhouse he will of course put forth his best dinner was on tablemrs elton before she could be spoken to was ready and before mr woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the diningparlour was saying must i go first i really am ashamed of always leading the way janes solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped emma she had heard and seen it all and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any she suspected that it had that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear and that it had not been in vain she thought there was an air of greater happiness than usuala glow both of complexion and spirits she could have made an inquiry or two as to the expedition and the expense of the irish mailsit was at her tongues endbut she abstained she was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt jane fairfaxs feelings and they followed the other ladies out of the room arm in arm with an appearance of goodwill highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each xvii when the ladies returned to the drawingroom after dinner emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct partieswith so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did mrs elton engross jane fairfax and slight herself she and mrs weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together mrs elton left them no choice if jane repressed her for a little time she soon began again and though much that passed between them was in a halfwhisper especially on mrs eltons side there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects the postofficecatching coldfetching lettersand friendship were long under discussion and to them succeeded one which must be at least equally unpleasant to janeinquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her and professions of mrs eltons meditated activity here is april come said she i get quite anxious about you june will soon be here but i have never fixed on june or any other monthmerely looked forward to the summer in general but have you really heard of nothing i have not even made any inquiry i do not wish to make any yet oh my dear we cannot begin too early you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing i not aware said jane shaking her head dear mrs elton who can have thought of it as i have done but you have not seen so much of the world as i have you do not know how many candidates there always are for the first situations i saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round maple grove a cousin of mr suckling mrs bragge had such an infinity of applications every body was anxious to be in her family for she moves in the first circle waxcandles in the schoolroom you may imagine how desirable of all houses in the kingdom mrs bragges is the one i would most wish to see you in colonel and mrs campbell are to be in town again by midsummer said jane i must spend some time with them i am sure they will want itafterwards i may probably be glad to dispose of myself but i would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present trouble aye i know your scruples you are afraid of giving me trouble but i assure you my dear jane the campbells can hardly be more interested about you than i am i shall write to mrs partridge in a day or two and shall give her a strict charge to be on the lookout for any thing eligible thank you but i would rather you did not mention the subject to her till the time draws nearer i do not wish to be giving any body trouble but my dear child the time is drawing near here is april and june or say even july is very near with such business to accomplish before us your inexperience really amuses me a situation such as you deserve and your friends would require for you is no everyday occurrence is not obtained at a moments notice indeed indeed we must begin inquiring directly excuse me maam but this is by no means my intention i make no inquiry myself and should be sorry to have any made by my friends when i am quite determined as to the time i am not at all afraid of being long unemployed there are places in town offices where inquiry would soon produce somethingoffices for the salenot quite of human fleshbut of human intellect oh my dear human flesh you quite shock me if you mean a fling at the slavetrade i assure you mr suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition i did not mean i was not thinking of the slavetrade replied jane governesstrade i assure you was all that i had in view widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on but as to the greater misery of the victims i do not know where it lies but i only mean to say that there are advertising offices and that by applying to them i should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do something that would do repeated mrs elton aye that may suit your humble ideas of yourselfi know what a modest creature you are but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer any inferior commonplace situation in a family not moving in a certain circle or able to command the elegancies of life you are very obliging but as to all that i am very indifferent it would be no object to me to be with the rich my mortifications i think would only be the greater i should suffer more from comparison a gentlemans family is all that i should condition for i know you i know you you would take up with any thing but i shall be a little more nice and i am sure the good campbells will be quite on my side with your superior talents you have a right to move in the first circle your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms have as many rooms as you like and mix in the family as much as you chosethat isi do not knowif you knew the harp you might do all that i am very sure but you sing as well as playyes i really believe you might even without the harp stipulate for what you choseand you must and shall be delightfully honourably and comfortably settled before the campbells or i have any rest you may well class the delight the honour and the comfort of such a situation together said jane they are pretty sure to be equal however i am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me i am exceedingly obliged to you mrs elton i am obliged to any body who feels for me but i am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer for two or three months longer i shall remain where i am and as i am and i am quite serious too i assure you replied mrs elton gaily in resolving to be always on the watch and employing my friends to watch also that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us in this style she ran on never thoroughly stopped by any thing till mr woodhouse came into the room her vanity had then a change of object and emma heard her saying in the same halfwhisper to jane here comes this dear old beau of mine i protestonly think of his gallantry in coming away before the other menwhat a dear creature he isi assure you i like him excessively i admire all that quaint oldfashioned politeness it is much more to my taste than modern ease modern ease often disgusts me but this good old mr woodhouse i wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner oh i assure you i began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous i fancy i am rather a favourite he took notice of my gown how do you like itselinas choicehandsome i think but i do not know whether it is not overtrimmed i have the greatest dislike to the idea of being overtrimmedquite a horror of finery i must put on a few ornaments now because it is expected of me a bride you know must appear like a bride but my natural taste is all for simplicity a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery but i am quite in the minority i believe few people seem to value simplicity of dressshow and finery are every thing i have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin do you think it will look well the whole party were but just reassembled in the drawingroom when mr weston made his appearance among them he had returned to a late dinner and walked to hartfield as soon as it was over he had been too much expected by the best judges for surprizebut there was great joy mr woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now as he would have been sorry to see him before john knightley only was in mute astonishmentthat a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of business in london should set off again and walk half a mile to another mans house for the sake of being in mixed company till bedtime of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers was a circumstance to strike him deeply a man who had been in motion since eight oclock in the morning and might now have been still who had been long talking and might have been silent who had been in more than one crowd and might have been alonesuch a man to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside and on the evening of a cold sleety april day rush out again into the worldcould he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife there would have been a motive but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party john knightley looked at him with amazement then shrugged his shoulders and said i could not have believed it even of him mr weston meanwhile perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting happy and cheerful as usual and with all the right of being principal talker which a day spent anywhere from home confers was making himself agreeable among the rest and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten and spread abroad what public news he had heard was proceeding to a family communication which though principally addressed to mrs weston he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room he gave her a letter it was from frank and to herself he had met with it in his way and had taken the liberty of opening it read it read it said he it will give you pleasure only a few lineswill not take you long read it to emma the two ladies looked over it together and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time in a voice a little subdued but very audible to every body well he is coming you see good news i think well what do you say to iti always told you he would be here again soon did not ianne my dear did not i always tell you so and you would not believe mein town next week you seeat the latest i dare say for she is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done most likely they will be there tomorrow or saturday as to her illness all nothing of course but it is an excellent thing to have frank among us again so near as town they will stay a good while when they do come and he will be half his time with us this is precisely what i wanted well pretty good news is not it have you finished it has emma read it all put it up put it up we will have a good talk about it some other time but it will not do now i shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way mrs weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion her looks and words had nothing to restrain them she was happy she knew she was happy and knew she ought to be happy her congratulations were warm and open but emma could not speak so fluently she was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings and trying to understand the degree of her agitation which she rather thought was considerable mr weston however too eager to be very observant too communicative to want others to talk was very well satisfied with what she did say and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already it was well that he took every bodys joy for granted or he might not have thought either mr woodhouse or mr knightley particularly delighted they were the first entitled after mrs weston and emma to be made happyfrom them he would have proceeded to miss fairfax but she was so deep in conversation with john knightley that it would have been too positive an interruption and finding himself close to mrs elton and her attention disengaged he necessarily began on the subject with her xviii i hope i shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you said mr weston mrs elton very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope smiled most graciously you have heard of a certain frank churchill i presume he continuedand know him to be my son though he does not bear my name oh yes and i shall be very happy in his acquaintance i am sure mr elton will lose no time in calling on him and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the vicarage you are very obligingfrank will be extremely happy i am sure he is to be in town next week if not sooner we have notice of it in a letter today i met the letters in my way this morning and seeing my sons hand presumed to open itthough it was not directed to meit was to mrs weston she is his principal correspondent i assure you i hardly ever get a letter and so you absolutely opened what was directed to her oh mr westonlaughing affectedly i must protest against thata most dangerous precedent indeedi beg you will not let your neighbours follow your exampleupon my word if this is what i am to expect we married women must begin to exert ourselvesoh mr weston i could not have believed it of you aye we men are sad fellows you must take care of yourself mrs eltonthis letter tells usit is a short letterwritten in a hurry merely to give us noticeit tells us that they are all coming up to town directly on mrs churchills accountshe has not been well the whole winter and thinks enscombe too cold for herso they are all to move southward without loss of time indeedfrom yorkshire i think enscombe is in yorkshire yes they are about one hundred and ninety miles from london a considerable journey yes upon my word very considerable sixtyfive miles farther than from maple grove to london but what is distance mr weston to people of large fortuneyou would be amazed to hear how my brother mr suckling sometimes flies about you will hardly believe mebut twice in one week he and mr bragge went to london and back again with four horses the evil of the distance from enscombe said mr weston is that mrs churchill as we understand has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together in franks last letter she complained he said of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncles this you know speaks a great degree of weaknessbut now she is so impatient to be in town that she means to sleep only two nights on the roadso frank writes word certainly delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions mrs elton you must grant me that no indeed i shall grant you nothing i always take the part of my own sex i do indeed i give you noticeyou will find me a formidable antagonist on that point i always stand up for womenand i assure you if you knew how selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn you would not wonder at mrs churchills making incredible exertions to avoid it selina says it is quite horror to herand i believe i have caught a little of her nicety she always travels with her own sheets an excellent precaution does mrs churchill do the same depend upon it mrs churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did mrs churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for mrs elton eagerly interposed with oh mr weston do not mistake me selina is no fine lady i assure you do not run away with such an idea is not she then she is no rule for mrs churchill who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld mrs elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly it was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was not a fine lady perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of itand she was considering in what way she had best retract when mr weston went on mrs churchill is not much in my good graces as you may suspectbut this is quite between ourselves she is very fond of frank and therefore i would not speak ill of her besides she is out of health now but that indeed by her own account she has always been i would not say so to every body mrs elton but i have not much faith in mrs churchills illness if she is really ill why not go to bath mr westonto bath or to clifton she has taken it into her head that enscombe is too cold for her the fact is i suppose that she is tired of enscombe she has now been a longer time stationary there than she ever was before and she begins to want change it is a retired place a fine place but very retired ayelike maple grove i dare say nothing can stand more retired from the road than maple grove such an immense plantation all round it you seem shut out from every thingin the most complete retirementand mrs churchill probably has not health or spirits like selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion or perhaps she may not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life i always say a woman cannot have too many resourcesand i feel very thankful that i have so many myself as to be quite independent of society frank was here in february for a fortnight so i remember to have heard he will find an addition to the society of highbury when he comes again that is if i may presume to call myself an addition but perhaps he may never have heard of there being such a creature in the world this was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by and mr weston with a very good grace immediately exclaimed my dear madam nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible not heard of youi believe mrs westons letters lately have been full of very little else than mrs elton he had done his duty and could return to his son when frank left us continued he it was quite uncertain when we might see him again which makes this days news doubly welcome it has been completely unexpected that is i always had a strong persuasion he would be here again soon i was sure something favourable would turn upbut nobody believed me he and mrs weston were both dreadfully desponding how could he contrive to come and how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again and so forthi always felt that something would happen in our favour and so it has you see i have observed mrs elton in the course of my life that if things are going untowardly one month they are sure to mend the next very true mr weston perfectly true it is just what i used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship when because things did not go quite right did not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his feelings he was apt to be in despair and exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be may before hymens saffron robe would be put on for us oh the pains i have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views the carriagewe had disappointments about the carriageone morning i remember he came to me quite in despair she was stopped by a slight fit of coughing and mr weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on you were mentioning may may is the very month which mrs churchill is ordered or has ordered herself to spend in some warmer place than enscombein short to spend in london so that we have the agreeable prospect of frequent visits from frank the whole springprecisely the season of the year which one should have chosen for it days almost at the longest weather genial and pleasant always inviting one out and never too hot for exercise when he was here before we made the best of it but there was a good deal of wet damp cheerless weather there always is in february you know and we could not do half that we intended now will be the time this will be complete enjoyment and i do not know mrs elton whether the uncertainty of our meetings the sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in today or tomorrow and at any hour may not be more friendly to happiness than having him actually in the house i think it is so i think it is the state of mind which gives most spirit and delight i hope you will be pleased with my son but you must not expect a prodigy he is generally thought a fine young man but do not expect a prodigy mrs westons partiality for him is very great and as you may suppose most gratifying to me she thinks nobody equal to him and i assure you mr weston i have very little doubt that my opinion will be decidedly in his favour i have heard so much in praise of mr frank churchillat the same time it is fair to observe that i am one of those who always judge for themselves and are by no means implicitly guided by others i give you notice that as i find your son so i shall judge of himi am no flatterer mr weston was musing i hope said he presently i have not been severe upon poor mrs churchill if she is ill i should be sorry to do her injustice but there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to speak of her with the forbearance i could wish you cannot be ignorant mrs elton of my connexion with the family nor of the treatment i have met with and between ourselves the whole blame of it is to be laid to her she was the instigator franks mother would never have been slighted as she was but for her mr churchill has pride but his pride is nothing to his wifes his is a quiet indolent gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome but her pride is arrogance and insolence and what inclines one less to bear she has no fair pretence of family or blood she was nobody when he married her barely the daughter of a gentleman but ever since her being turned into a churchill she has outchurchilld them all in high and mighty claims but in herself i assure you she is an upstart only think well that must be infinitely provoking i have quite a horror of upstarts maple grove has given me a thorough disgust to people of that sort for there is a family in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give themselves your description of mrs churchill made me think of them directly people of the name of tupman very lately settled there and encumbered with many low connexions but giving themselves immense airs and expecting to be on a footing with the old established families a year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at west hall and how they got their fortune nobody knows they came from birmingham which is not a place to promise much you know mr weston one has not great hopes from birmingham i always say there is something direful in the sound but nothing more is positively known of the tupmans though a good many things i assure you are suspected and yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother mr suckling who happens to be one of their nearest neighbours it is infinitely too bad mr suckling who has been eleven years a resident at maple grove and whose father had it before himi believe at leasti am almost sure that old mr suckling had completed the purchase before his death they were interrupted tea was carrying round and mr weston having said all that he wanted soon took the opportunity of walking away after tea mr and mrs weston and mr elton sat down with mr woodhouse to cards the remaining five were left to their own powers and emma doubted their getting on very well for mr knightley seemed little disposed for conversation mrs elton was wanting notice which nobody had inclination to pay and she was herself in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer being silent mr john knightley proved more talkative than his brother he was to leave them early the next day and he soon began with well emma i do not believe i have any thing more to say about the boys but you have your sisters letter and every thing is down at full length there we may be sure my charge would be much more concise than hers and probably not much in the same spirit all that i have to recommend being comprised in do not spoil them and do not physic them i rather hope to satisfy you both said emma for i shall do all in my power to make them happy which will be enough for isabella and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic and if you find them troublesome you must send them home again that is very likely you think so do not you i hope i am aware that they may be too noisy for your fatheror even may be some encumbrance to you if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately increase certainly you must be sensible that the last halfyear has made a great difference in your way of life difference no indeed i am not there can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be witness this very time here am i come down for only one day and you are engaged with a dinnerpartywhen did it happen before or any thing like it your neighbourhood is increasing and you mix more with it a little while ago every letter to isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties dinners at mr coles or balls at the crown the difference which randalls randalls alone makes in your goingson is very great yes said his brother quickly it is randalls that does it all very welland as randalls i suppose is not likely to have less influence than heretofore it strikes me as a possible thing emma that henry and john may be sometimes in the way and if they are i only beg you to send them home no cried mr knightley that need not be the consequence let them be sent to donwell i shall certainly be at leisure upon my word exclaimed emma you amuse me i should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party and why i am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys these amazing engagements of minewhat have they been dining once with the colesand having a ball talked of which never took place i can understand younodding at mr john knightleyyour good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here delights you too much to pass unnoticed but you turning to mr knightley who know how very very seldom i am ever two hours from hartfield why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me i cannot imagine and as to my dear little boys i must say that if aunt emma has not time for them i do not think they would fare much better with uncle knightley who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent oneand who when he is at home is either reading to himself or settling his accounts mr knightley seemed to be trying not to smile and succeeded without difficulty upon mrs eltons beginning to talk to him volume iii i a very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of frank churchill she was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed it was for him her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing it was not worth thinking ofbut if he who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away it would be very distressing if a separation of two months should not have cooled him there were dangers and evils before hercaution for him and for herself would be necessary she did not mean to have her own affections entangled again and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his she wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration that would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance and yet she could not help rather anticipating something decisive she felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis an event a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state it was not very long though rather longer than mr weston had foreseen before she had the power of forming some opinion of frank churchills feelings the enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined but he was at highbury very soon afterwards he rode down for a couple of hours he could not yet do more but as he came from randalls immediately to hartfield she could then exercise all her quick observation and speedily determine how he was influenced and how she must act they met with the utmost friendliness there could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her but she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree she watched him well it was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been absence with the conviction probably of her indifference had produced this very natural and very desirable effect he was in high spirits as ready to talk and laugh as ever and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit and recur to old stories and he was not without agitation it was not in his calmness that she read his comparative indifference he was not calm his spirits were evidently fluttered there was restlessness about him lively as he was it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself but what decided her belief on the subject was his staying only a quarter of an hour and hurrying away to make other calls in highbury he had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passedhe had not stopped he would not stop for more than a wordbut he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not call and much as he wished to stay longer at hartfield he must hurry off she had no doubt as to his being less in lovebut neither his agitated spirits nor his hurrying away seemed like a perfect cure and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long this was the only visit from frank churchill in the course of ten days he was often hoping intending to comebut was always prevented his aunt could not bear to have him leave her such was his own account at randalls if he were quite sincere if he really tried to come it was to be inferred that mrs churchills removal to london had been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder that she was really ill was very certain he had declared himself convinced of it at randalls though much might be fancy he could not doubt when he looked back that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago he did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her but he could not be prevailed on by all his fathers doubts to say that her complaints were merely imaginary or that she was as strong as ever it soon appeared that london was not the place for her she could not endure its noise her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering and by the ten days end her nephews letter to randalls communicated a change of plan they were going to remove immediately to richmond mrs churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there and had otherwise a fancy for the place a readyfurnished house in a favourite spot was engaged and much benefit expected from the change emma heard that frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friendsfor the house was taken for may and june she was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them almost as often as he could even wish emma saw how mr weston understood these joyous prospects he was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered she hoped it was not so two months must bring it to the proof mr westons own happiness was indisputable he was quite delighted it was the very circumstance he could have wished for now it would be really having frank in their neighbourhood what were nine miles to a young manan hours ride he would be always coming over the difference in that respect of richmond and london was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never sixteen milesnay eighteenit must be full eighteen to manchesterstreetwas a serious obstacle were he ever able to get away the day would be spent in coming and returning there was no comfort in having him in london he might as well be at enscombe but richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse better than nearer one good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removalthe ball at the crown it had not been forgotten before but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day now however it was absolutely to be every preparation was resumed and very soon after the churchills had removed to richmond a few lines from frank to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twentyfour hours at any given time induced them to name as early a day as possible mr westons ball was to be a real thing a very few tomorrows stood between the young people of highbury and happiness mr woodhouse was resigned the time of year lightened the evil to him may was better for every thing than february mrs bates was engaged to spend the evening at hartfield james had due notice and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little henry nor dear little john would have any thing the matter with them while dear emma were gone ii no misfortune occurred again to prevent the ball the day approached the day arrived and after a morning of some anxious watching frank churchill in all the certainty of his own self reached randalls before dinner and every thing was safe no second meeting had there yet been between him and emma the room at the crown was to witness itbut it would be better than a common meeting in a crowd mr weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other persons came that she could not refuse him and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young mans company she was to convey harriet and they drove to the crown in good time the randalls party just sufficiently before them frank churchill seemed to have been on the watch and though he did not say much his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening they all walked about together to see that every thing was as it should be and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage which emma could not hear the sound of at first without great surprize so unreasonably early she was going to exclaim but she presently found that it was a family of old friends who were coming like herself by particular desire to help mr westons judgment and they were so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins who had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing earnestness on the same errand that it seemed as if half the company might soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory inspection emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which mr weston depended and felt that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity she liked his open manners but a little less of openheartedness would have made him a higher charactergeneral benevolence but not general friendship made a man what he ought to beshe could fancy such a man the whole party walked about and looked and praised again and then having nothing else to do formed a sort of halfcircle round the fire to observe in their various modes till other subjects were started that though may a fire in the evening was still very pleasant emma found that it was not mr westons fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger they had stopped at mrs batess door to offer the use of their carriage but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the eltons frank was standing by her but not steadily there was a restlessness which shewed a mind not at ease he was looking about he was going to the door he was watching for the sound of other carriagesimpatient to begin or afraid of being always near her mrs elton was spoken of i think she must be here soon said he i have a great curiosity to see mrs elton i have heard so much of her it cannot be long i think before she comes a carriage was heard he was on the move immediately but coming back said i am forgetting that i am not acquainted with her i have never seen either mr or mrs elton i have no business to put myself forward mr and mrs elton appeared and all the smiles and the proprieties passed but miss bates and miss fairfax said mr weston looking about we thought you were to bring them the mistake had been slight the carriage was sent for them now emma longed to know what franks first opinion of mrs elton might be how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress and her smiles of graciousness he was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion by giving her very proper attention after the introduction had passed in a few minutes the carriage returnedsomebody talked of raini will see that there are umbrellas sir said frank to his father miss bates must not be forgotten and away he went mr weston was following but mrs elton detained him to gratify him by her opinion of his son and so briskly did she begin that the young man himself though by no means moving slowly could hardly be out of hearing a very fine young man indeed mr weston you know i candidly told you i should form my own opinion and i am happy to say that i am extremely pleased with himyou may believe me i never compliment i think him a very handsome young man and his manners are precisely what i like and approveso truly the gentleman without the least conceit or puppyism you must know i have a vast dislike to puppiesquite a horror of them they were never tolerated at maple grove neither mr suckling nor me had ever any patience with them and we used sometimes to say very cutting things selina who is mild almost to a fault bore with them much better while she talked of his son mr westons attention was chained but when she got to maple grove he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to and with happy smiles must hurry away mrs elton turned to mrs weston i have no doubt of its being our carriage with miss bates and jane our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditiousi believe we drive faster than any bodywhat a pleasure it is to send ones carriage for a friendi understand you were so kind as to offer but another time it will be quite unnecessary you may be very sure i shall always take care of them miss bates and miss fairfax escorted by the two gentlemen walked into the room and mrs elton seemed to think it as much her duty as mrs westons to receive them her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who looked on like emma but her words every bodys words were soon lost under the incessant flow of miss bates who came in talking and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire as the door opened she was heard so very obliging of youno rain at all nothing to signify i do not care for myself quite thick shoes and jane declareswellas soon as she was within the door well this is brilliant indeedthis is admirableexcellently contrived upon my word nothing wanting could not have imagined itso well lighted upjane jane lookdid you ever see any thing oh mr weston you must really have had aladdins lamp good mrs stokes would not know her own room again i saw her as i came in she was standing in the entrance oh mrs stokes said ibut i had not time for more she was now met by mrs westonvery well i thank you maam i hope you are quite well very happy to hear it so afraid you might have a headacheseeing you pass by so often and knowing how much trouble you must have delighted to hear it indeed ah dear mrs elton so obliged to you for the carriageexcellent time jane and i quite ready did not keep the horses a moment most comfortable carriageoh and i am sure our thanks are due to you mrs weston on that score mrs elton had most kindly sent jane a note or we should have beenbut two such offers in one daynever were such neighbours i said to my mother upon my word maam thank you my mother is remarkably well gone to mr woodhouses i made her take her shawlfor the evenings are not warmher large new shawl mrs dixons weddingpresentso kind of her to think of my mother bought at weymouth you knowmr dixons choice there were three others jane says which they hesitated about some time colonel campbell rather preferred an olive my dear jane are you sure you did not wet your feetit was but a drop or two but i am so afraidbut mr frank churchill was so extremelyand there was a mat to step uponi shall never forget his extreme politenessoh mr frank churchill i must tell you my mothers spectacles have never been in fault since the rivet never came out again my mother often talks of your goodnature does not she janedo not we often talk of mr frank churchillah heres miss woodhousedear miss woodhouse how do you dovery well i thank you quite well this is meeting quite in fairylandsuch a transformationmust not compliment i know eyeing emma most complacentlythat would be rudebut upon my word miss woodhouse you do lookhow do you like janes hairyou are a judgeshe did it all herself quite wonderful how she does her hairno hairdresser from london i think couldah dr hughes i declareand mrs hughes must go and speak to dr and mrs hughes for a momenthow do you do how do you dovery well i thank you this is delightful is not itwheres dear mr richardoh there he is dont disturb him much better employed talking to the young ladies how do you do mr richardi saw you the other day as you rode through the townmrs otway i protestand good mr otway and miss otway and miss carolinesuch a host of friendsand mr george and mr arthurhow do you do how do you all doquite well i am much obliged to you never betterdont i hear another carriagewho can this bevery likely the worthy colesupon my word this is charming to be standing about among such friends and such a noble firei am quite roasted no coffee i thank you for menever take coffeea little tea if you please sir by and byeno hurryoh here it comes every thing so good frank churchill returned to his station by emma and as soon as miss bates was quiet she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse of mrs elton and miss fairfax who were standing a little way behind herhe was thoughtful whether he were overhearing too she could not determine after a good many compliments to jane on her dress and look compliments very quietly and properly taken mrs elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herselfand it was how do you like my gownhow do you like my trimminghow has wright done my hairwith many other relative questions all answered with patient politeness mrs elton then said nobody can think less of dress in general than i dobut upon such an occasion as this when every bodys eyes are so much upon me and in compliment to the westonswho i have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honouri would not wish to be inferior to others and i see very few pearls in the room except mineso frank churchill is a capital dancer i understandwe shall see if our styles suita fine young man certainly is frank churchill i like him very well at this moment frank began talking so vigorously that emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own praises and did not want to hear moreand the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while till another suspension brought mrs eltons tones again distinctly forwardmr elton had just joined them and his wife was exclaiming oh you have found us out at last have you in our seclusioni was this moment telling jane i thought you would begin to be impatient for tidings of us janerepeated frank churchill with a look of surprize and displeasurethat is easybut miss fairfax does not disapprove it i suppose how do you like mrs elton said emma in a whisper not at all you are ungrateful ungratefulwhat do you mean then changing from a frown to a smileno do not tell mei do not want to know what you meanwhere is my fatherwhen are we to begin dancing emma could hardly understand him he seemed in an odd humour he walked off to find his father but was quickly back again with both mr and mrs weston he had met with them in a little perplexity which must be laid before emma it had just occurred to mrs weston that mrs elton must be asked to begin the ball that she would expect it which interfered with all their wishes of giving emma that distinctionemma heard the sad truth with fortitude and what are we to do for a proper partner for her said mr weston she will think frank ought to ask her frank turned instantly to emma to claim her former promise and boasted himself an engaged man which his father looked his most perfect approbation ofand it then appeared that mrs weston was wanting him to dance with mrs elton himself and that their business was to help to persuade him into it which was done pretty soonmr weston and mrs elton led the way mr frank churchill and miss woodhouse followed emma must submit to stand second to mrs elton though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her it was almost enough to make her think of marrying mrs elton had undoubtedly the advantage at this time in vanity completely gratified for though she had intended to begin with frank churchill she could not lose by the change mr weston might be his sons superiorin spite of this little rub however emma was smiling with enjoyment delighted to see the respectable length of the set as it was forming and to feel that she had so many hours of unusual festivity before hershe was more disturbed by mr knightleys not dancing than by any thing elsethere he was among the standersby where he ought not to be he ought to be dancingnot classing himself with the husbands and fathers and whistplayers who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were made upso young as he lookedhe could not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere than where he had placed himself his tall firm upright figure among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of the elderly men was such as emma felt must draw every bodys eyes and excepting her own partner there was not one among the whole row of young men who could be compared with himhe moved a few steps nearer and those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner with what natural grace he must have danced would he but take the troublewhenever she caught his eye she forced him to smile but in general he was looking grave she wished he could love a ballroom better and could like frank churchill betterhe seemed often observing her she must not flatter herself that he thought of her dancing but if he were criticising her behaviour she did not feel afraid there was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner they seemed more like cheerful easy friends than lovers that frank churchill thought less of her than he had done was indubitable the ball proceeded pleasantly the anxious cares the incessant attentions of mrs weston were not thrown away every body seemed happy and the praise of being a delightful ball which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be was repeatedly given in the very beginning of the existence of this of very important very recordable events it was not more productive than such meetings usually are there was one however which emma thought something ofthe two last dances before supper were begun and harriet had no partnerthe only young lady sitting downand so equal had been hitherto the number of dancers that how there could be any one disengaged was the wonderbut emmas wonder lessened soon afterwards on seeing mr elton sauntering about he would not ask harriet to dance if it were possible to be avoided she was sure he would notand she was expecting him every moment to escape into the cardroom escape however was not his plan he came to the part of the room where the sittersby were collected spoke to some and walked about in front of them as if to shew his liberty and his resolution of maintaining it he did not omit being sometimes directly before miss smith or speaking to those who were close to heremma saw it she was not yet dancing she was working her way up from the bottom and had therefore leisure to look around and by only turning her head a little she saw it all when she was halfway up the set the whole group were exactly behind her and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch but mr elton was so near that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which just then took place between him and mrs weston and she perceived that his wife who was standing immediately above her was not only listening also but even encouraging him by significant glancesthe kindhearted gentle mrs weston had left her seat to join him and say do not you dance mr elton to which his prompt reply was most readily mrs weston if you will dance with me meoh noi would get you a better partner than myself i am no dancer if mrs gilbert wishes to dance said he i shall have great pleasure i am surefor though beginning to feel myself rather an old married man and that my dancing days are over it would give me very great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like mrs gilbert mrs gilbert does not mean to dance but there is a young lady disengaged whom i should be very glad to see dancingmiss smith miss smithohi had not observedyou are extremely obligingand if i were not an old married manbut my dancing days are over mrs weston you will excuse me any thing else i should be most happy to do at your commandbut my dancing days are over mrs weston said no more and emma could imagine with what surprize and mortification she must be returning to her seat this was mr elton the amiable obliging gentle mr eltonshe looked round for a moment he had joined mr knightley at a little distance and was arranging himself for settled conversation while smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife she would not look again her heart was in a glow and she feared her face might be as hot in another moment a happier sight caught hermr knightley leading harriet to the setnever had she been more surprized seldom more delighted than at that instant she was all pleasure and gratitude both for harriet and herself and longed to be thanking him and though too distant for speech her countenance said much as soon as she could catch his eye again his dancing proved to be just what she had believed it extremely good and harriet would have seemed almost too lucky if it had not been for the cruel state of things before and for the very complete enjoyment and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features announced it was not thrown away on her she bounded higher than ever flew farther down the middle and was in a continual course of smiles mr elton had retreated into the cardroom looking emma trusted very foolish she did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife though growing very like hershe spoke some of her feelings by observing audibly to her partner knightley has taken pity on poor little miss smithvery goodnatured i declare supper was announced the move began and miss bates might be heard from that moment without interruption till her being seated at table and taking up her spoon jane jane my dear jane where are youhere is your tippet mrs weston begs you to put on your tippet she says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage though every thing has been doneone door nailed upquantities of mattingmy dear jane indeed you must mr churchill oh you are too obliging how well you put it onso gratified excellent dancing indeedyes my dear i ran home as i said i should to help grandmama to bed and got back again and nobody missed mei set off without saying a word just as i told you grandmama was quite well had a charming evening with mr woodhouse a vast deal of chat and backgammontea was made downstairs biscuits and baked apples and wine before she came away amazing luck in some of her throws and she inquired a great deal about you how you were amused and who were your partners oh said i i shall not forestall jane i left her dancing with mr george otway she will love to tell you all about it herself tomorrow her first partner was mr elton i do not know who will ask her next perhaps mr william cox my dear sir you are too obligingis there nobody you would not ratheri am not helpless sir you are most kind upon my word jane on one arm and me on the otherstop stop let us stand a little back mrs elton is going dear mrs elton how elegant she looksbeautiful lacenow we all follow in her train quite the queen of the eveningwell here we are at the passage two steps jane take care of the two steps oh no there is but one well i was persuaded there were two how very odd i was convinced there were two and there is but one i never saw any thing equal to the comfort and stylecandles everywherei was telling you of your grandmama janethere was a little disappointmentthe baked apples and biscuits excellent in their way you know but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first and good mr woodhouse not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough sent it all out again now there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread and asparagusso she was rather disappointed but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body for fear of its getting round to dear miss woodhouse who would be so very much concernedwell this is brilliant i am all amazement could not have supposed any thingsuch elegance and profusioni have seen nothing like it sincewell where shall we sit where shall we sit anywhere so that jane is not in a draught where i sit is of no consequence oh do you recommend this sidewell i am sure mr churchillonly it seems too goodbut just as you please what you direct in this house cannot be wrong dear jane how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama soup too bless me i should not be helped so soon but it smells most excellent and i cannot help beginning emma had no opportunity of speaking to mr knightley till after supper but when they were all in the ballroom again her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked he was warm in his reprobation of mr eltons conduct it had been unpardonable rudeness and mrs eltons looks also received the due share of censure they aimed at wounding more than harriet said he emma why is it that they are your enemies he looked with smiling penetration and on receiving no answer added she ought not to be angry with you i suspect whatever he may beto that surmise you say nothing of course but confess emma that you did want him to marry harriet i did replied emma and they cannot forgive me he shook his head but there was a smile of indulgence with it and he only said i shall not scold you i leave you to your own reflections can you trust me with such flatterersdoes my vain spirit ever tell me i am wrong not your vain spirit but your serious spiritif one leads you wrong i am sure the other tells you of it i do own myself to have been completely mistaken in mr elton there is a littleness about him which you discovered and which i did not and i was fully convinced of his being in love with harriet it was through a series of strange blunders and in return for your acknowledging so much i will do you the justice to say that you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himselfharriet smith has some firstrate qualities which mrs elton is totally without an unpretending singleminded artless girlinfinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as mrs elton i found harriet more conversable than i expected emma was extremely gratifiedthey were interrupted by the bustle of mr weston calling on every body to begin dancing again come miss woodhouse miss otway miss fairfax what are you all doingcome emma set your companions the example every body is lazy every body is asleep i am ready said emma whenever i am wanted whom are you going to dance with asked mr knightley she hesitated a moment and then replied with you if you will ask me will you said he offering his hand indeed i will you have shewn that you can dance and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper brother and sister no indeed iii this little explanation with mr knightley gave emma considerable pleasure it was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoyshe was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the eltons and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike and his praise of harriet his concession in her favour was peculiarly gratifying the impertinence of the eltons which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions and she looked forward to another happy resultthe cure of harriets infatuationfrom harriets manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom she had strong hopes it seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened and she were enabled to see that mr elton was not the superior creature she had believed him the fever was over and emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy she depended on the evil feelings of the eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisiteharriet rational frank churchill not too much in love and mr knightley not wanting to quarrel with her how very happy a summer must be before her she was not to see frank churchill this morning he had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at hartfield as he was to be at home by the middle of the day she did not regret it having arranged all these matters looked them through and put them all to rights she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys as well as of their grandpapa when the great iron sweepgate opened and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see togetherfrank churchill with harriet leaning on his armactually harrieta moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened harriet looked white and frightened and he was trying to cheer herthe iron gates and the frontdoor were not twenty yards asunderthey were all three soon in the hall and harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away a young lady who faints must be recovered questions must be answered and surprizes be explained such events are very interesting but the suspense of them cannot last long a few minutes made emma acquainted with the whole miss smith and miss bickerton another parlour boarder at mrs goddards who had been also at the ball had walked out together and taken a road the richmond road which though apparently public enough for safety had led them into alarmabout half a mile beyond highbury making a sudden turn and deeply shaded by elms on each side it became for a considerable stretch very retired and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them on a broader patch of greensward by the side a party of gipsies a child on the watch came towards them to beg and miss bickerton excessively frightened gave a great scream and calling on harriet to follow her ran up a steep bank cleared a slight hedge at the top and made the best of her way by a short cut back to highbury but poor harriet could not follow she had suffered very much from cramp after dancing and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerlessand in this state and exceedingly terrified she had been obliged to remain how the trampers might have behaved had the young ladies been more courageous must be doubtful but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted and harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children headed by a stout woman and a great boy all clamorous and impertinent in look though not absolutely in wordmore and more frightened she immediately promised them money and taking out her purse gave them a shilling and begged them not to want more or to use her illshe was then able to walk though but slowly and was moving awaybut her terror and her purse were too tempting and she was followed or rather surrounded by the whole gang demanding more in this state frank churchill had found her she trembling and conditioning they loud and insolent by a most fortunate chance his leaving highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment the pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward and leave his horses to meet him by another road a mile or two beyond highburyand happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of miss bates and to have forgotten to restore them he had been obliged to stop at her door and go in for a few minutes he was therefore later than he had intended and being on foot was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them the terror which the woman and boy had been creating in harriet was then their own portion he had left them completely frightened and harriet eagerly clinging to him and hardly able to speak had just strength enough to reach hartfield before her spirits were quite overcome it was his idea to bring her to hartfield he had thought of no other place this was the amount of the whole storyof his communication and of harriets as soon as she had recovered her senses and speechhe dared not stay longer than to see her well these several delays left him not another minute to lose and emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to mrs goddard and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to mr knightley he set off with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself such an adventure as thisa fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain so emma thought at least could a linguist could a grammarian could even a mathematician have seen what she did have witnessed their appearance together and heard their history of it without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each otherhow much more must an imaginist like herself be on fire with speculation and foresightespecially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made it was a very extraordinary thing nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place within her memory no rencontre no alarm of the kindand now it had happened to the very person and at the very hour when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue herit certainly was very extraordinaryand knowing as she did the favourable state of mind of each at this period it struck her the more he was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself she just recovering from her mania for mr elton it seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences it was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other in the few minutes conversation which she had yet had with him while harriet had been partially insensible he had spoken of her terror her naïveté her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm with a sensibility amused and delighted and just at last after harriets own account had been given he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of miss bickerton in the warmest terms every thing was to take its natural course however neither impelled nor assisted she would not stir a step nor drop a hint no she had had enough of interference there could be no harm in a scheme a mere passive scheme it was no more than a wish beyond it she would on no account proceed emmas first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passedaware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible within half an hour it was known all over highbury it was the very event to engage those who talk most the young and the low and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news the last nights ball seemed lost in the gipsies poor mr woodhouse trembled as he sat and as emma had foreseen would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again it was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and miss woodhouse for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after as well as miss smith were coming in during the rest of the day and he had the pleasure of returning for answer that they were all very indifferentwhich though not exactly true for she was perfectly well and harriet not much otherwise emma would not interfere with she had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man for she hardly knew what indisposition was and if he did not invent illnesses for her she could make no figure in a message the gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice they took themselves off in a hurry the young ladies of highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to emma and her nephewsin her imagination it maintained its ground and henry and john were still asking every day for the story of harriet and the gipsies and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital iv a very few days had passed after this adventure when harriet came one morning to emma with a small parcel in her hand and after sitting down and hesitating thus began miss woodhouseif you are at leisurei have something that i should like to tell youa sort of confession to makeand then you know it will be over emma was a good deal surprized but begged her to speak there was a seriousness in harriets manner which prepared her quite as much as her words for something more than ordinary it is my duty and i am sure it is my wish she continued to have no reserves with you on this subject as i am happily quite an altered creature in one respect it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it i do not want to say more than is necessaryi am too much ashamed of having given way as i have done and i dare say you understand me yes said emma i hope i do how i could so long a time be fancying myself cried harriet warmly it seems like madness i can see nothing at all extraordinary in him nowi do not care whether i meet him or notexcept that of the two i had rather not see himand indeed i would go any distance round to avoid himbut i do not envy his wife in the least i neither admire her nor envy her as i have done she is very charming i dare say and all that but i think her very illtempered and disagreeablei shall never forget her look the other nighthowever i assure you miss woodhouse i wish her no evilno let them be ever so happy together it will not give me another moments pang and to convince you that i have been speaking truth i am now going to destroywhat i ought to have destroyed long agowhat i ought never to have kepti know that very well blushing as she spokehowever now i will destroy it alland it is my particular wish to do it in your presence that you may see how rational i am grown cannot you guess what this parcel holds said she with a conscious look not the least in the worlddid he ever give you any thing noi cannot call them gifts but they are things that i have valued very much she held the parcel towards her and emma read the words most precious treasures on the top her curiosity was greatly excited harriet unfolded the parcel and she looked on with impatience within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little tunbridgeware box which harriet opened it was well lined with the softest cotton but excepting the cotton emma saw only a small piece of courtplaister now said harriet you must recollect no indeed i do not dear me i should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about courtplaister one of the very last times we ever met in itit was but a very few days before i had my sore throatjust before mr and mrs john knightley camei think the very eveningdo not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife and your recommending courtplaisterbut as you had none about you and knew i had you desired me to supply him and so i took mine out and cut him a piece but it was a great deal too large and he cut it smaller and kept playing some time with what was left before he gave it back to me and so then in my nonsense i could not help making a treasure of itso i put it by never to be used and looked at it now and then as a great treat my dearest harriet cried emma putting her hand before her face and jumping up you make me more ashamed of myself than i can bear remember it aye i remember it all now all except your saving this relici knew nothing of that till this momentbut the cutting the finger and my recommending courtplaister and saying i had none about meoh my sins my sinsand i had plenty all the while in my pocketone of my senseless tricksi deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my lifewellsitting down againgo onwhat else and had you really some at hand yourself i am sure i never suspected it you did it so naturally and so you actually put this piece of courtplaister by for his sake said emma recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement and secretly she added to herself lord bless me when should i ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of courtplaister that frank churchill had been pulling about i never was equal to this here resumed harriet turning to her box again here is something still more valuable i mean that has been more valuable because this is what did really once belong to him which the courtplaister never did emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure it was the end of an old pencilthe part without any lead this was really his said harrietdo not you remember one morningno i dare say you do not but one morningi forget exactly the daybut perhaps it was the tuesday or wednesday before that evening he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocketbook it was about sprucebeer mr knightley had been telling him something about brewing sprucebeer and he wanted to put it down but when he took out his pencil there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away and it would not do so you lent him another and this was left upon the table as good for nothing but i kept my eye on it and as soon as i dared caught it up and never parted with it again from that moment i do remember it cried emma i perfectly remember ittalking about sprucebeeroh yesmr knightley and i both saying we liked it and mr eltons seeming resolved to learn to like it too i perfectly remember itstop mr knightley was standing just here was not he i have an idea he was standing just here ah i do not know i cannot recollectit is very odd but i cannot recollectmr elton was sitting here i remember much about where i am now well go on oh thats all i have nothing more to shew you or to sayexcept that i am now going to throw them both behind the fire and i wish you to see me do it my poor dear harriet and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things yes simpleton as i wasbut i am quite ashamed of it now and wish i could forget as easily as i can burn them it was very wrong of me you know to keep any remembrances after he was married i knew it wasbut had not resolution enough to part with them but harriet is it necessary to burn the courtplaisteri have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil but the courtplaister might be useful i shall be happier to burn it replied harriet it has a disagreeable look to me i must get rid of every thingthere it goes and there is an end thank heaven of mr elton and when thought emma will there be a beginning of mr churchill she had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made and could not but hope that the gipsy though she had told no fortune might be proved to have made harrietsabout a fortnight after the alarm they came to a sufficient explanation and quite undesignedly emma was not thinking of it at the moment which made the information she received more valuable she merely said in the course of some trivial chat well harriet whenever you marry i would advise you to do so and soand thought no more of it till after a minutes silence she heard harriet say in a very serious tone i shall never marry emma then looked up and immediately saw how it was and after a moments debate as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not replied never marrythis is a new resolution it is one that i shall never change however after another short hesitation i hope it does not proceed fromi hope it is not in compliment to mr elton mr elton indeed cried harriet indignantlyoh noand emma could just catch the words so superior to mr elton she then took a longer time for consideration should she proceed no farthershould she let it pass and seem to suspect nothingperhaps harriet might think her cold or angry if she did or perhaps if she were totally silent it might only drive harriet into asking her to hear too much and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances she was perfectly resolvedshe believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once all that she meant to say and know plain dealing was always best she had previously determined how far she would proceed on any application of the sort and it would be safer for both to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speedshe was decided and thus spoke harriet i will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning your resolution or rather your expectation of never marrying results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you is not it so oh miss woodhouse believe me i have not the presumption to suppose indeed i am not so madbut it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distanceand to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world with the gratitude wonder and veneration which are so proper in me especially i am not at all surprized at you harriet the service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart service oh it was such an inexpressible obligationthe very recollection of it and all that i felt at the timewhen i saw him cominghis noble lookand my wretchedness before such a change in one moment such a change from perfect misery to perfect happiness it is very natural it is natural and it is honourableyes honourable i think to chuse so well and so gratefullybut that it will be a fortunate preference is more than i can promise i do not advise you to give way to it harriet i do not by any means engage for its being returned consider what you are about perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can at any rate do not let them carry you far unless you are persuaded of his liking you be observant of him let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations i give you this caution now because i shall never speak to you again on the subject i am determined against all interference henceforward i know nothing of the matter let no name ever pass our lips we were very wrong before we will be cautious nowhe is your superior no doubt and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature but yet harriet more wonderful things have taken place there have been matches of greater disparity but take care of yourself i would not have you too sanguine though however it may end be assured your raising your thoughts to him is a mark of good taste which i shall always know how to value harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend its tendency would be to raise and refine her mindand it must be saving her from the danger of degradation v in this state of schemes and hopes and connivance june opened upon hartfield to highbury in general it brought no material change the eltons were still talking of a visit from the sucklings and of the use to be made of their barouchelandau and jane fairfax was still at her grandmothers and as the return of the campbells from ireland was again delayed and august instead of midsummer fixed for it she was likely to remain there full two months longer provided at least she were able to defeat mrs eltons activity in her service and save herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her will mr knightley who for some reason best known to himself had certainly taken an early dislike to frank churchill was only growing to dislike him more he began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of emma that emma was his object appeared indisputable every thing declared it his own attentions his fathers hints his motherinlaws guarded silence it was all in unison words conduct discretion and indiscretion told the same story but while so many were devoting him to emma and emma herself making him over to harriet mr knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with jane fairfax he could not understand it but there were symptoms of intelligence between themhe thought so at leastsymptoms of admiration on his side which having once observed he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning however he might wish to escape any of emmas errors of imagination she was not present when the suspicion first arose he was dining with the randalls family and jane at the eltons and he had seen a look more than a single look at miss fairfax which from the admirer of miss woodhouse seemed somewhat out of place when he was again in their company he could not help remembering what he had seen nor could he avoid observations which unless it were like cowper and his fire at twilight myself creating what i saw brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking of private understanding even between frank churchill and jane he had walked up one day after dinner as he very often did to spend his evening at hartfield emma and harriet were going to walk he joined them and on returning they fell in with a larger party who like themselves judged it wisest to take their exercise early as the weather threatened rain mr and mrs weston and their son miss bates and her niece who had accidentally met they all united and on reaching hartfield gates emma who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him the randalls party agreed to it immediately and after a pretty long speech from miss bates which few persons listened to she also found it possible to accept dear miss woodhouses most obliging invitation as they were turning into the grounds mr perry passed by on horseback the gentlemen spoke of his horse by the bye said frank churchill to mrs weston presently what became of mr perrys plan of setting up his carriage mrs weston looked surprized and said i did not know that he ever had any such plan nay i had it from you you wrote me word of it three months ago me impossible indeed you did i remember it perfectly you mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon mrs perry had told somebody and was extremely happy about it it was owing to her persuasion as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm you must remember it now upon my word i never heard of it till this moment never really neverbless me how could it bethen i must have dreamt itbut i was completely persuadedmiss smith you walk as if you were tired you will not be sorry to find yourself at home what is thiswhat is this cried mr weston about perry and a carriage is perry going to set up his carriage frank i am glad he can afford it you had it from himself had you no sir replied his son laughing i seem to have had it from nobodyvery oddi really was persuaded of mrs westons having mentioned it in one of her letters to enscombe many weeks ago with all these particularsbut as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before of course it must have been a dream i am a great dreamer i dream of every body at highbury when i am awayand when i have gone through my particular friends then i begin dreaming of mr and mrs perry it is odd though observed his father that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at enscombe perrys setting up his carriage and his wifes persuading him to it out of care for his healthjust what will happen i have no doubt some time or other only a little premature what an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream and at others what a heap of absurdities it is well frank your dream certainly shews that highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent emma you are a great dreamer i think emma was out of hearing she had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance and was beyond the reach of mr westons hint why to own the truth cried miss bates who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes if i must speak on this subject there is no denying that mr frank churchill might havei do not mean to say that he did not dream iti am sure i have sometimes the oddest dreams in the worldbut if i am questioned about it i must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring for mrs perry herself mentioned it to my mother and the coles knew of it as well as ourselvesbut it was quite a secret known to nobody else and only thought of about three days mrs perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed jane dont you remember grandmamas telling us of it when we got home i forget where we had been walking tovery likely to randalls yes i think it was to randalls mrs perry was always particularly fond of my motherindeed i do not know who is notand she had mentioned it to her in confidence she had no objection to her telling us of course but it was not to go beyond and from that day to this i never mentioned it to a soul that i know of at the same time i will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint because i know i do sometimes pop out a thing before i am aware i am a talker you know i am rather a talker and now and then i have let a thing escape me which i should not i am not like jane i wish i were i will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing in the world where is sheoh just behind perfectly remember mrs perrys comingextraordinary dream indeed they were entering the hall mr knightleys eyes had preceded miss batess in a glance at jane from frank churchills face where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away he had involuntarily turned to hers but she was indeed behind and too busy with her shawl mr weston had walked in the two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass mr knightley suspected in frank churchill the determination of catching her eyehe seemed watching her intentlyin vain however if it were sojane passed between them into the hall and looked at neither there was no time for farther remark or explanation the dream must be borne with and mr knightley must take his seat with the rest round the large modern circular table which emma had introduced at hartfield and which none but emma could have had power to place there and persuade her father to use instead of the smallsized pembroke on which two of his daily meals had for forty years been crowded tea passed pleasantly and nobody seemed in a hurry to move miss woodhouse said frank churchill after examining a table behind him which he could reach as he sat have your nephews taken away their alphabetstheir box of letters it used to stand here where is it this is a sort of dulllooking evening that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer we had great amusement with those letters one morning i want to puzzle you again emma was pleased with the thought and producing the box the table was quickly scattered over with alphabets which no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their two selves they were rapidly forming words for each other or for any body else who would be puzzled the quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for mr woodhouse who had often been distressed by the more animated sort which mr weston had occasionally introduced and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting with tender melancholy over the departure of the poor little boys or in fondly pointing out as he took up any stray letter near him how beautifully emma had written it frank churchill placed a word before miss fairfax she gave a slight glance round the table and applied herself to it frank was next to emma jane opposite to themand mr knightley so placed as to see them all and it was his object to see as much as he could with as little apparent observation the word was discovered and with a faint smile pushed away if meant to be immediately mixed with the others and buried from sight she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across for it was not mixed and harriet eager after every fresh word and finding out none directly took it up and fell to work she was sitting by mr knightley and turned to him for help the word was blunder and as harriet exultingly proclaimed it there was a blush on janes cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible mr knightley connected it with the dream but how it could all be was beyond his comprehension how the delicacy the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep he feared there must be some decided involvement disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn these letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick it was a childs play chosen to conceal a deeper game on frank churchills part with great indignation did he continue to observe him with great alarm and distrust to observe also his two blinded companions he saw a short word prepared for emma and given to her with a look sly and demure he saw that emma had soon made it out and found it highly entertaining though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure for she said nonsense for shame he heard frank churchill next say with a glance towards jane i will give it to hershall iand as clearly heard emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth no no you must not you shall not indeed it was done however this gallant young man who seemed to love without feeling and to recommend himself without complaisance directly handed over the word to miss fairfax and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it mr knightleys excessive curiosity to know what this word might be made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it and it was not long before he saw it to be dixon jane fairfaxs perception seemed to accompany his her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning the superior intelligence of those five letters so arranged she was evidently displeased looked up and seeing herself watched blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her and saying only i did not know that proper names were allowed pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be offered her face was averted from those who had made the attack and turned towards her aunt aye very true my dear cried the latter though jane had not spoken a wordi was just going to say the same thing it is time for us to be going indeed the evening is closing in and grandmama will be looking for us my dear sir you are too obliging we really must wish you good night janes alertness in moving proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived she was immediately up and wanting to quit the table but so many were also moving that she could not get away and mr knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her and resolutely swept away by her unexamined she was afterwards looking for her shawlfrank churchill was looking alsoit was growing dusk and the room was in confusion and how they parted mr knightley could not tell he remained at hartfield after all the rest his thoughts full of what he had seen so full that when the candles came to assist his observations he mustyes he certainly must as a friendan anxious friendgive emma some hint ask her some question he could not see her in a situation of such danger without trying to preserve her it was his duty pray emma said he may i ask in what lay the great amusement the poignant sting of the last word given to you and miss fairfax i saw the word and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one and so very distressing to the other emma was extremely confused she could not endure to give him the true explanation for though her suspicions were by no means removed she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them oh she cried in evident embarrassment it all meant nothing a mere joke among ourselves the joke he replied gravely seemed confined to you and mr churchill he had hoped she would speak again but she did not she would rather busy herself about any thing than speak he sat a little while in doubt a variety of evils crossed his mind interferencefruitless interference emmas confusion and the acknowledged intimacy seemed to declare her affection engaged yet he would speak he owed it to her to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference rather than her welfare to encounter any thing rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause my dear emma said he at last with earnest kindness do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of between mr frank churchill and miss fairfax oh yes perfectlywhy do you make a doubt of it have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her or that she admired him never never she cried with a most open eagernessnever for the twentieth part of a moment did such an idea occur to me and how could it possibly come into your head i have lately imagined that i saw symptoms of attachment between themcertain expressive looks which i did not believe meant to be public oh you amuse me excessively i am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wanderbut it will not dovery sorry to check you in your first essaybut indeed it will not do there is no admiration between them i do assure you and the appearances which have caught you have arisen from some peculiar circumstancesfeelings rather of a totally different natureit is impossible exactly to explainthere is a good deal of nonsense in itbut the part which is capable of being communicated which is sense is that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another as any two beings in the world can be that is i presume it to be so on her side and i can answer for its being so on his i will answer for the gentlemans indifference she spoke with a confidence which staggered with a satisfaction which silenced mr knightley she was in gay spirits and would have prolonged the conversation wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions every look described and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her but his gaiety did not meet hers he found he could not be useful and his feelings were too much irritated for talking that he might not be irritated into an absolute fever by the fire which mr woodhouses tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year he soon afterwards took a hasty leave and walked home to the coolness and solitude of donwell abbey vi after being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from mr and mrs suckling the highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn no such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present in the daily interchange of news they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the sucklings coming had been united such as the last accounts of mrs churchill whose health seemed every day to supply a different report and the situation of mrs weston whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it mrs elton was very much disappointed it was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade her introductions and recommendations must all wait and every projected party be still only talked of so she thought at firstbut a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off why should not they explore to box hill though the sucklings did not come they could go there again with them in the autumn it was settled that they should go to box hill that there was to be such a party had been long generally known it had even given the idea of another emma had never been to box hill she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing and she and mr weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them and it was to be done in a quiet unpretending elegant way infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation the regular eating and drinking and picnic parade of the eltons and the sucklings this was so very well understood between them that emma could not but feel some surprise and a little displeasure on hearing from mr weston that he had been proposing to mrs elton as her brother and sister had failed her that the two parties should unite and go together and that as mrs elton had very readily acceded to it so it was to be if she had no objection now as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of mrs elton of which mr weston must already be perfectly aware it was not worth bringing forward againit could not be done without a reproof to him which would be giving pain to his wife and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of mrs eltons party every feeling was offended and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of mr westons temper i am glad you approve of what i have done said he very comfortably but i thought you would such schemes as these are nothing without numbers one cannot have too large a party a large party secures its own amusement and she is a goodnatured woman after all one could not leave her out emma denied none of it aloud and agreed to none of it in private it was now the middle of june and the weather fine and mrs elton was growing impatient to name the day and settle with mr weston as to pigeonpies and cold lamb when a lame carriagehorse threw every thing into sad uncertainty it might be weeks it might be only a few days before the horse were useable but no preparations could be ventured on and it was all melancholy stagnation mrs eltons resources were inadequate to such an attack is not this most vexatious knightley she criedand such weather for exploringthese delays and disappointments are quite odious what are we to dothe year will wear away at this rate and nothing done before this time last year i assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from maple grove to kings weston you had better explore to donwell replied mr knightley that may be done without horses come and eat my strawberries they are ripening fast if mr knightley did not begin seriously he was obliged to proceed so for his proposal was caught at with delight and the oh i should like it of all things was not plainer in words than manner donwell was famous for its strawberrybeds which seemed a plea for the invitation but no plea was necessary cabbagebeds would have been enough to tempt the lady who only wanted to be going somewhere she promised him again and again to comemuch oftener than he doubtedand was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it you may depend upon me said she i certainly will come name your day and i will come you will allow me to bring jane fairfax i cannot name a day said he till i have spoken to some others whom i would wish to meet you oh leave all that to me only give me a carteblanchei am lady patroness you know it is my party i will bring friends with me i hope you will bring elton said he but i will not trouble you to give any other invitations oh now you are looking very sly but consideryou need not be afraid of delegating power to me i am no young lady on her preferment married women you know may be safely authorised it is my party leave it all to me i will invite your guests nohe calmly repliedthere is but one married woman in the world whom i can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to donwell and that one is mrs weston i suppose interrupted mrs elton rather mortified nomrs knightleyand till she is in being i will manage such matters myself ah you are an odd creature she cried satisfied to have no one preferred to herselfyou are a humourist and may say what you like quite a humourist well i shall bring jane with mejane and her auntthe rest i leave to you i have no objections at all to meeting the hartfield family dont scruple i know you are attached to them you certainly will meet them if i can prevail and i shall call on miss bates in my way home thats quite unnecessary i see jane every daybut as you like it is to be a morning scheme you know knightley quite a simple thing i shall wear a large bonnet and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm hereprobably this basket with pink ribbon nothing can be more simple you see and jane will have such another there is to be no form or paradea sort of gipsy party we are to walk about your gardens and gather the strawberries ourselves and sit under treesand whatever else you may like to provide it is to be all out of doorsa table spread in the shade you know every thing as natural and simple as possible is not that your idea not quite my idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the diningroom the nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies with their servants and furniture i think is best observed by meals within doors when you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden there shall be cold meat in the house wellas you please only dont have a great set out and by the bye can i or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinionpray be sincere knightley if you wish me to talk to mrs hodges or to inspect anything i have not the least wish for it i thank you wellbut if any difficulties should arise my housekeeper is extremely clever i will answer for it that mine thinks herself full as clever and would spurn any bodys assistance i wish we had a donkey the thing would be for us all to come on donkeys jane miss bates and meand my caro sposo walking by i really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey in a country life i conceive it to be a sort of necessary for let a woman have ever so many resources it is not possible for her to be always shut up at homeand very long walks you knowin summer there is dust and in winter there is dirt you will not find either between donwell and highbury donwell lane is never dusty and now it is perfectly dry come on a donkey however if you prefer it you can borrow mrs coles i would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible that i am sure you would indeed i do you justice my good friend under that peculiar sort of dry blunt manner i know you have the warmest heart as i tell mr e you are a thorough humouristyes believe me knightley i am fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this scheme you have hit upon the very thing to please me mr knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade he wished to persuade mr woodhouse as well as emma to join the party and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably make him ill mr woodhouse must not under the specious pretence of a morning drive and an hour or two spent at donwell be tempted away to his misery he was invited on good faith no lurking horrors were to upbraid him for his easy credulity he did consent he had not been at donwell for two years some very fine morning he and emma and harriet could go very well and he could sit still with mrs weston while the dear girls walked about the gardens he did not suppose they could be damp now in the middle of the day he should like to see the old house again exceedingly and should be very happy to meet mr and mrs elton and any other of his neighbourshe could not see any objection at all to his and emmas and harriets going there some very fine morning he thought it very well done of mr knightley to invite themvery kind and sensiblemuch cleverer than dining outhe was not fond of dining out mr knightley was fortunate in every bodys most ready concurrence the invitation was everywhere so well received that it seemed as if like mrs elton they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment to themselvesemma and harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure from it and mr weston unasked promised to get frank over to join them if possible a proof of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed withmr knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad to see him and mr weston engaged to lose no time in writing and spare no arguments to induce him to come in the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast that the party to box hill was again under happy consideration and at last donwell was settled for one day and box hill for the nextthe weather appearing exactly right under a bright midday sun at almost midsummer mr woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage with one window down to partake of this alfresco party and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the abbey especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning he was happily placed quite at his ease ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved and advise every body to come and sit down and not to heat themselvesmrs weston who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired and sit all the time with him remained when all the others were invited or persuaded out his patient listener and sympathiser it was so long since emma had been at the abbey that as soon as she was satisfied of her fathers comfort she was glad to leave him and look around her eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family she felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building its suitable becoming characteristic situation low and shelteredits ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream of which the abbey with all the old neglect of prospect had scarcely a sightand its abundance of timber in rows and avenues which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted upthe house was larger than hartfield and totally unlike it covering a good deal of ground rambling and irregular with many comfortable and one or two handsome roomsit was just what it ought to be and it looked what it wasand emma felt an increasing respect for it as the residence of a family of such true gentility untainted in blood and understandingsome faults of temper john knightley had but isabella had connected herself unexceptionably she had given them neither men nor names nor places that could raise a blush these were pleasant feelings and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did and collect round the strawberrybedsthe whole party were assembled excepting frank churchill who was expected every moment from richmond and mrs elton in all her apparatus of happiness her large bonnet and her basket was very ready to lead the way in gathering accepting or talkingstrawberries and only strawberries could now be thought or spoken ofthe best fruit in englandevery bodys favouritealways wholesomethese the finest beds and finest sortsdelightful to gather for ones selfthe only way of really enjoying themmorning decidedly the best timenever tiredevery sort goodhautboy infinitely superiorno comparisonthe others hardly eatablehautboys very scarcechili preferredwhite wood finest flavour of allprice of strawberries in londonabundance about bristolmaple grovecultivationbeds when to be renewedgardeners thinking exactly differentno general rulegardeners never to be put out of their waydelicious fruitonly too rich to be eaten much ofinferior to cherriescurrants more refreshingonly objection to gathering strawberries the stoopingglaring suntired to deathcould bear it no longermust go and sit in the shade such for half an hour was the conversationinterrupted only once by mrs weston who came out in her solicitude after her soninlaw to inquire if he were comeand she was a little uneasyshe had some fears of his horse seats tolerably in the shade were found and now emma was obliged to overhear what mrs elton and jane fairfax were talking ofa situation a most desirable situation was in question mrs elton had received notice of it that morning and was in raptures it was not with mrs suckling it was not with mrs bragge but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them it was with a cousin of mrs bragge an acquaintance of mrs suckling a lady known at maple grove delightful charming superior first circles spheres lines ranks every thingand mrs elton was wild to have the offer closed with immediatelyon her side all was warmth energy and triumphand she positively refused to take her friends negative though miss fairfax continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any thing repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge beforestill mrs elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescence by the morrows posthow jane could bear it at all was astonishing to emmashe did look vexed she did speak pointedlyand at last with a decision of action unusual to her proposed a removalshould not they walk would not mr knightley shew them the gardensall the gardensshe wished to see the whole extentthe pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear it was hot and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered dispersed way scarcely any three together they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river seemed the finish of the pleasure groundsit led to nothing nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars which seemed intended in their erection to give the appearance of an approach to the house which never had been there disputable however as might be the taste of such a termination it was in itself a charming walk and the view which closed it extremely prettythe considerable slope at nearly the foot of which the abbey stood gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds and at half a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur well clothed with woodand at the bottom of this bank favourably placed and sheltered rose the abbey mill farm with meadows in front and the river making a close and handsome curve around it it was a sweet viewsweet to the eye and the mind english verdure english culture english comfort seen under a sun bright without being oppressive in this walk emma and mr weston found all the others assembled and towards this view she immediately perceived mr knightley and harriet distinct from the rest quietly leading the way mr knightley and harrietit was an odd têteàtête but she was glad to see itthere had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion and turned from her with little ceremony now they seemed in pleasant conversation there had been a time also when emma would have been sorry to see harriet in a spot so favourable for the abbey mill farm but now she feared it not it might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty its rich pastures spreading flocks orchard in blossom and light column of smoke ascendingshe joined them at the wall and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around he was giving harriet information as to modes of agriculture etc and emma received a smile which seemed to say these are my own concerns i have a right to talk on such subjects without being suspected of introducing robert martinshe did not suspect him it was too old a storyrobert martin had probably ceased to think of harrietthey took a few turns together along the walkthe shade was most refreshing and emma found it the pleasantest part of the day the next remove was to the house they must all go in and eatand they were all seated and busy and still frank churchill did not come mrs weston looked and looked in vain his father would not own himself uneasy and laughed at her fears but she could not be cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare he had expressed himself as to coming with more than common certainty his aunt was so much better that he had not a doubt of getting over to themmrs churchills state however as many were ready to remind her was liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependenceand mrs weston was at last persuaded to believe or to say that it must be by some attack of mrs churchill that he was prevented comingemma looked at harriet while the point was under consideration she behaved very well and betrayed no emotion the cold repast was over and the party were to go out once more to see what had not yet been seen the old abbey fishponds perhaps get as far as the clover which was to be begun cutting on the morrow or at any rate have the pleasure of being hot and growing cool againmr woodhouse who had already taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens where no damps from the river were imagined even by him stirred no more and his daughter resolved to remain with him that mrs weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed to need mr knightley had done all in his power for mr woodhouses entertainment books of engravings drawers of medals cameos corals shells and every other family collection within his cabinets had been prepared for his old friend to while away the morning and the kindness had perfectly answered mr woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused mrs weston had been shewing them all to him and now he would shew them all to emmafortunate in having no other resemblance to a child than in a total want of taste for what he saw for he was slow constant and methodicalbefore this second looking over was begun however emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments free observation of the entrance and groundplot of the houseand was hardly there when jane fairfax appeared coming quickly in from the garden and with a look of escapelittle expecting to meet miss woodhouse so soon there was a start at first but miss woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of will you be so kind said she when i am missed as to say that i am gone homei am going this momentmy aunt is not aware how late it is nor how long we have been absentbut i am sure we shall be wanted and i am determined to go directlyi have said nothing about it to any body it would only be giving trouble and distress some are gone to the ponds and some to the lime walk till they all come in i shall not be missed and when they do will you have the goodness to say that i am gone certainly if you wish itbut you are not going to walk to highbury alone yeswhat should hurt mei walk fast i shall be at home in twenty minutes but it is too far indeed it is to be walking quite alone let my fathers servant go with youlet me order the carriage it can be round in five minutes thank you thank youbut on no accounti would rather walkand for me to be afraid of walking alonei who may so soon have to guard others she spoke with great agitation and emma very feelingly replied that can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now i must order the carriage the heat even would be dangeryou are fatigued already i amshe answeredi am fatigued but it is not the sort of fatiguequick walking will refresh memiss woodhouse we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits mine i confess are exhausted the greatest kindness you can shew me will be to let me have my own way and only say that i am gone when it is necessary emma had not another word to oppose she saw it all and entering into her feelings promoted her quitting the house immediately and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend her parting look was gratefuland her parting words oh miss woodhouse the comfort of being sometimes aloneseemed to burst from an overcharged heart and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her even towards some of those who loved her best such a home indeed such an aunt said emma as she turned back into the hall again i do pity you and the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors the more i shall like you jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour and they had only accomplished some views of st marks place venice when frank churchill entered the room emma had not been thinking of him she had forgotten to think of himbut she was very glad to see him mrs weston would be at ease the black mare was blameless they were right who had named mrs churchill as the cause he had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her a nervous seizure which had lasted some hoursand he had quite given up every thought of coming till very lateand had he known how hot a ride he should have and how late with all his hurry he must be he believed he should not have come at all the heat was excessive he had never suffered any thing like italmost wished he had staid at homenothing killed him like heathe could bear any degree of cold etc but heat was intolerableand he sat down at the greatest possible distance from the slight remains of mr woodhouses fire looking very deplorable you will soon be cooler if you sit still said emma as soon as i am cooler i shall go back again i could very ill be sparedbut such a point had been made of my coming you will all be going soon i suppose the whole party breaking up i met one as i camemadness in such weatherabsolute madness emma listened and looked and soon perceived that frank churchills state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of humour some people were always cross when they were hot such might be his constitution and as she knew that eating and drinking were often the cure of such incidental complaints she recommended his taking some refreshment he would find abundance of every thing in the diningroomand she humanely pointed out the door nohe should not eat he was not hungry it would only make him hotter in two minutes however he relented in his own favour and muttering something about sprucebeer walked off emma returned all her attention to her father saying in secret i am glad i have done being in love with him i should not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning harriets sweet easy temper will not mind it he was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal and came back all the bettergrown quite cooland with good manners like himselfable to draw a chair close to them take an interest in their employment and regret in a reasonable way that he should be so late he was not in his best spirits but seemed trying to improve them and at last made himself talk nonsense very agreeably they were looking over views in swisserland as soon as my aunt gets well i shall go abroad said he i shall never be easy till i have seen some of these places you will have my sketches some time or other to look ator my tour to reador my poem i shall do something to expose myself that may bebut not by sketches in swisserland you will never go to swisserland your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave england they may be induced to go too a warm climate may be prescribed for her i have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad i assure you i have i feel a strong persuasion this morning that i shall soon be abroad i ought to travel i am tired of doing nothing i want a change i am serious miss woodhouse whatever your penetrating eyes may fancyi am sick of englandand would leave it tomorrow if i could you are sick of prosperity and indulgence cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself and be contented to stay i sick of prosperity and indulgence you are quite mistaken i do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged i am thwarted in every thing material i do not consider myself at all a fortunate person you are not quite so miserable though as when you first came go and eat and drink a little more and you will do very well another slice of cold meat another draught of madeira and water will make you nearly on a par with the rest of us noi shall not stir i shall sit by you you are my best cure we are going to box hill tomorrowyou will join us it is not swisserland but it will be something for a young man so much in want of a change you will stay and go with us no certainly not i shall go home in the cool of the evening but you may come again in the cool of tomorrow morning noit will not be worth while if i come i shall be cross then pray stay at richmond but if i do i shall be crosser still i can never bear to think of you all there without me these are difficulties which you must settle for yourself chuse your own degree of crossness i shall press you no more the rest of the party were now returning and all were soon collected with some there was great joy at the sight of frank churchill others took it very composedly but there was a very general distress and disturbance on miss fairfaxs disappearance being explained that it was time for every body to go concluded the subject and with a short final arrangement for the next days scheme they parted frank churchills little inclination to exclude himself increased so much that his last words to emma were wellif you wish me to stay and join the party i will she smiled her acceptance and nothing less than a summons from richmond was to take him back before the following evening vii they had a very fine day for box hill and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement accommodation and punctuality were in favour of a pleasant party mr weston directed the whole officiating safely between hartfield and the vicarage and every body was in good time emma and harriet went together miss bates and her niece with the eltons the gentlemen on horseback mrs weston remained with mr woodhouse nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment and every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving but in the general amount of the day there was deficiency there was a languor a want of spirits a want of union which could not be got over they separated too much into parties the eltons walked together mr knightley took charge of miss bates and jane and emma and harriet belonged to frank churchill and mr weston tried in vain to make them harmonise better it seemed at first an accidental division but it never materially varied mr and mrs elton indeed shewed no unwillingness to mix and be as agreeable as they could but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill there seemed a principle of separation between the other parties too strong for any fine prospects or any cold collation or any cheerful mr weston to remove at first it was downright dulness to emma she had never seen frank churchill so silent and stupid he said nothing worth hearinglooked without seeingadmired without intelligencelistened without knowing what she said while he was so dull it was no wonder that harriet should be dull likewise and they were both insufferable when they all sat down it was better to her taste a great deal better for frank churchill grew talkative and gay making her his first object every distinguishing attention that could be paid was paid to her to amuse her and be agreeable in her eyes seemed all that he cared forand emma glad to be enlivened not sorry to be flattered was gay and easy too and gave him all the friendly encouragement the admission to be gallant which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance but which now in her own estimation meant nothing though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no english word but flirtation could very well describe mr frank churchill and miss woodhouse flirted together excessively they were laying themselves open to that very phraseand to having it sent off in a letter to maple grove by one lady to ireland by another not that emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected she laughed because she was disappointed and though she liked him for his attentions and thought them all whether in friendship admiration or playfulness extremely judicious they were not winning back her heart she still intended him for her friend how much i am obliged to you said he for telling me to come todayif it had not been for you i should certainly have lost all the happiness of this party i had quite determined to go away again yes you were very cross and i do not know what about except that you were too late for the best strawberries i was a kinder friend than you deserved but you were humble you begged hard to be commanded to come dont say i was cross i was fatigued the heat overcame me it is hotter today not to my feelings i am perfectly comfortable today you are comfortable because you are under command your commandyes perhaps i intended you to say so but i meant selfcommand you had somehow or other broken bounds yesterday and run away from your own management but today you are got back againand as i cannot be always with you it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather than mine it comes to the same thing i can have no selfcommand without a motive you order me whether you speak or not and you can be always with me you are always with me dating from three oclock yesterday my perpetual influence could not begin earlier or you would not have been so much out of humour before three oclock yesterday that is your date i thought i had seen you first in february your gallantry is really unanswerable but lowering her voicenobody speaks except ourselves and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people i say nothing of which i am ashamed replied he with lively impudence i saw you first in february let every body on the hill hear me if they can let my accents swell to mickleham on one side and dorking on the other i saw you first in february and then whisperingour companions are excessively stupid what shall we do to rouse them any nonsense will serve they shall talk ladies and gentlemen i am ordered by miss woodhouse who wherever she is presides to say that she desires to know what you are all thinking of some laughed and answered goodhumouredly miss bates said a great deal mrs elton swelled at the idea of miss woodhouses presiding mr knightleys answer was the most distinct is miss woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of oh no nocried emma laughing as carelessly as she couldupon no account in the world it is the very last thing i would stand the brunt of just now let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of i will not say quite all there are one or two perhaps glancing at mr weston and harriet whose thoughts i might not be afraid of knowing it is a sort of thing cried mrs elton emphatically which i should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into though perhaps as the chaperon of the partyi never was in any circleexploring partiesyoung ladiesmarried women her mutterings were chiefly to her husband and he murmured in reply very true my love very true exactly so indeedquite unheard ofbut some ladies say any thing better pass it off as a joke every body knows what is due to you it will not do whispered frank to emma they are most of them affronted i will attack them with more address ladies and gentlemeni am ordered by miss woodhouse to say that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of and only requires something very entertaining from each of you in a general way here are seven of you besides myself who she is pleased to say am very entertaining already and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever be it prose or verse original or repeatedor two things moderately cleveror three things very dull indeed and she engages to laugh heartily at them all oh very well exclaimed miss bates then i need not be uneasy three things very dull indeed that will just do for me you know i shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever i open my mouth shant i looking round with the most goodhumoured dependence on every bodys assentdo not you all think i shall emma could not resist ah maam but there may be a difficulty pardon mebut you will be limited as to numberonly three at once miss bates deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner did not immediately catch her meaning but when it burst on her it could not anger though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her ahwellto be sure yes i see what she means turning to mr knightley and i will try to hold my tongue i must make myself very disagreeable or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend i like your plan cried mr weston agreed agreed i will do my best i am making a conundrum how will a conundrum reckon low i am afraid sir very low answered his sonbut we shall be indulgentespecially to any one who leads the way no no said emma it will not reckon low a conundrum of mr westons shall clear him and his next neighbour come sir pray let me hear it i doubt its being very clever myself said mr weston it is too much a matter of fact but here it iswhat two letters of the alphabet are there that express perfection what two lettersexpress perfection i am sure i do not know ah you will never guess you to emma i am certain will never guessi will tell youm and aemmado you understand understanding and gratification came together it might be a very indifferent piece of wit but emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in itand so did frank and harrietit did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally some looked very stupid about it and mr knightley gravely said this explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted and mr weston has done very well for himself but he must have knocked up every body else perfection should not have come quite so soon oh for myself i protest i must be excused said mrs elton i really cannot attempti am not at all fond of the sort of thing i had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name which i was not at all pleased with i knew who it came from an abominable puppyyou know who i mean nodding to her husband these kind of things are very well at christmas when one is sitting round the fire but quite out of place in my opinion when one is exploring about the country in summer miss woodhouse must excuse me i am not one of those who have witty things at every bodys service i do not pretend to be a wit i have a great deal of vivacity in my own way but i really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue pass us if you please mr churchill pass mr e knightley jane and myself we have nothing clever to saynot one of us yes yes pray pass me added her husband with a sort of sneering consciousness i have nothing to say that can entertain miss woodhouse or any other young lady an old married manquite good for nothing shall we walk augusta with all my heart i am really tired of exploring so long on one spot come jane take my other arm jane declined it however and the husband and wife walked off happy couple said frank churchill as soon as they were out of hearinghow well they suit one anothervery luckymarrying as they did upon an acquaintance formed only in a public placethey only knew each other i think a few weeks in bath peculiarly luckyfor as to any real knowledge of a persons disposition that bath or any public place can giveit is all nothing there can be no knowledge it is only by seeing women in their own homes among their own set just as they always are that you can form any just judgment short of that it is all guess and luckand will generally be illluck how many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance and rued it all the rest of his life miss fairfax who had seldom spoken before except among her own confederates spoke now such things do occur undoubtedlyshe was stopped by a cough frank churchill turned towards her to listen you were speaking said he gravely she recovered her voice i was only going to observe that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women i cannot imagine them to be very frequent a hasty and imprudent attachment may arisebut there is generally time to recover from it afterwards i would be understood to mean that it can be only weak irresolute characters whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience an oppression for ever he made no answer merely looked and bowed in submission and soon afterwards said in a lively tone well i have so little confidence in my own judgment that whenever i marry i hope some body will chuse my wife for me will you turning to emma will you chuse a wife for mei am sure i should like any body fixed on by you you provide for the family you know with a smile at his father find some body for me i am in no hurry adopt her educate her and make her like myself by all means if you can very well i undertake the commission you shall have a charming wife she must be very lively and have hazle eyes i care for nothing else i shall go abroad for a couple of yearsand when i return i shall come to you for my wife remember emma was in no danger of forgetting it was a commission to touch every favourite feeling would not harriet be the very creature described hazle eyes excepted two years more might make her all that he wished he might even have harriet in his thoughts at the moment who could say referring the education to her seemed to imply it now maam said jane to her aunt shall we join mrs elton if you please my dear with all my heart i am quite ready i was ready to have gone with her but this will do just as well we shall soon overtake her there she isno thats somebody else thats one of the ladies in the irish car party not at all like herwell i declare they walked off followed in half a minute by mr knightley mr weston his son emma and harriet only remained and the young mans spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant even emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the others or sitting almost alone and quite unattended to in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her the appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart and the solicitude of mrs elton to have her carriage first were gladly endured in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure such another scheme composed of so many illassorted people she hoped never to be betrayed into again while waiting for the carriage she found mr knightley by her side he looked around as if to see that no one were near and then said emma i must once more speak to you as i have been used to do a privilege rather endured than allowed perhaps but i must still use it i cannot see you acting wrong without a remonstrance how could you be so unfeeling to miss bates how could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character age and situationemma i had not thought it possible emma recollected blushed was sorry but tried to laugh it off nay how could i help saying what i didnobody could have helped it it was not so very bad i dare say she did not understand me i assure you she did she felt your full meaning she has talked of it since i wish you could have heard how she talked of itwith what candour and generosity i wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance in being able to pay her such attentions as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father when her society must be so irksome oh cried emma i know there is not a better creature in the world but you must allow that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her they are blended said he i acknowledge and were she prosperous i could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good were she a woman of fortune i would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance i would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner were she your equal in situationbut emma consider how far this is from being the case she is poor she has sunk from the comforts she was born to and if she live to old age must probably sink more her situation should secure your compassion it was badly done indeed you whom she had known from an infant whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour to have you now in thoughtless spirits and the pride of the moment laugh at her humble herand before her niece tooand before others many of whom certainly some would be entirely guided by your treatment of herthis is not pleasant to you emmaand it is very far from pleasant to me but i must i willi will tell you truths while i can satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now while they talked they were advancing towards the carriage it was ready and before she could speak again he had handed her in he had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted and her tongue motionless they were combined only of anger against herself mortification and deep concern she had not been able to speak and on entering the carriage sunk back for a moment overcomethen reproaching herself for having taken no leave making no acknowledgment parting in apparent sullenness she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a difference but it was just too late he had turned away and the horses were in motion she continued to look back but in vain and soon with what appeared unusual speed they were half way down the hill and every thing left far behind she was vexed beyond what could have been expressedalmost beyond what she could conceal never had she felt so agitated mortified grieved at any circumstance in her life she was most forcibly struck the truth of this representation there was no denying she felt it at her heart how could she have been so brutal so cruel to miss bates how could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued and how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude of concurrence of common kindness time did not compose her as she reflected more she seemed but to feel it more she never had been so depressed happily it was not necessary to speak there was only harriet who seemed not in spirits herself fagged and very willing to be silent and emma felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home without being at any trouble to check them extraordinary as they were viii the wretchedness of a scheme to box hill was in emmas thoughts all the evening how it might be considered by the rest of the party she could not tell they in their different homes and their different ways might be looking back on it with pleasure but in her view it was a morning more completely misspent more totally bare of rational satisfaction at the time and more to be abhorred in recollection than any she had ever passed a whole evening of backgammon with her father was felicity to it there indeed lay real pleasure for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twentyfour to his comfort and feeling that unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem she could not in her general conduct be open to any severe reproach as a daughter she hoped she was not without a heart she hoped no one could have said to her how could you be so unfeeling to your fatheri must i will tell you truths while i can miss bates should never againno never if attention in future could do away the past she might hope to be forgiven she had been often remiss her conscience told her so remiss perhaps more in thought than fact scornful ungracious but it should be so no more in the warmth of true contrition she would call upon her the very next morning and it should be the beginning on her side of a regular equal kindly intercourse she was just as determined when the morrow came and went early that nothing might prevent her it was not unlikely she thought that she might see mr knightley in her way or perhaps he might come in while she were paying her visit she had no objection she would not be ashamed of the appearance of the penitence so justly and truly hers her eyes were towards donwell as she walked but she saw him not the ladies were all at home she had never rejoiced at the sound before nor ever before entered the passage nor walked up the stairs with any wish of giving pleasure but in conferring obligation or of deriving it except in subsequent ridicule there was a bustle on her approach a good deal of moving and talking she heard miss batess voice something was to be done in a hurry the maid looked frightened and awkward hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment and then ushered her in too soon the aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room jane she had a distinct glimpse of looking extremely ill and before the door had shut them out she heard miss bates saying well my dear i shall say you are laid down upon the bed and i am sure you are ill enough poor old mrs bates civil and humble as usual looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on i am afraid jane is not very well said she but i do not know they tell me she is well i dare say my daughter will be here presently miss woodhouse i hope you find a chair i wish hetty had not gone i am very little ablehave you a chair maam do you sit where you like i am sure she will be here presently emma seriously hoped she would she had a moments fear of miss bates keeping away from her but miss bates soon camevery happy and obligedbut emmas conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as beforeless ease of look and manner a very friendly inquiry after miss fairfax she hoped might lead the way to a return of old feelings the touch seemed immediate ah miss woodhouse how kind you arei suppose you have heardand are come to give us joy this does not seem much like joy indeed in metwinkling away a tear or twobut it will be very trying for us to part with her after having had her so long and she has a dreadful headache just now writing all the morningsuch long letters you know to be written to colonel campbell and mrs dixon my dear said i you will blind yourselffor tears were in her eyes perpetually one cannot wonder one cannot wonder it is a great change and though she is amazingly fortunatesuch a situation i suppose as no young woman before ever met with on first going outdo not think us ungrateful miss woodhouse for such surprising good fortuneagain dispersing her tearsbut poor dear soul if you were to see what a headache she has when one is in great pain you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve she is as low as possible to look at her nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation you will excuse her not coming to youshe is not ableshe is gone into her own roomi want her to lie down upon the bed my dear said i i shall say you are laid down upon the bed but however she is not she is walking about the room but now that she has written her letters she says she shall soon be well she will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you miss woodhouse but your kindness will excuse her you were kept waiting at the doori was quite ashamedbut somehow there was a little bustlefor it so happened that we had not heard the knock and till you were on the stairs we did not know any body was coming it is only mrs cole said i depend upon it nobody else would come so early well said she it must be borne some time or other and it may as well be now but then patty came in and said it was you oh said i it is miss woodhouse i am sure you will like to see heri can see nobody said she and up she got and would go away and that was what made us keep you waitingand extremely sorry and ashamed we were if you must go my dear said i you must and i will say you are laid down upon the bed emma was most sincerely interested her heart had been long growing kinder towards jane and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion and left her nothing but pity and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past obliged her to admit that jane might very naturally resolve on seeing mrs cole or any other steady friend when she might not bear to see herself she spoke as she felt with earnest regret and solicitudesincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from miss bates to be now actually determined on might be as much for miss fairfaxs advantage and comfort as possible it must be a severe trial to them all she had understood it was to be delayed till colonel campbells return so very kind replied miss bates but you are always kind there was no bearing such an always and to break through her dreadful gratitude emma made the direct inquiry of wheremay i askis miss fairfax going to a mrs smallridgecharming womanmost superiorto have the charge of her three little girlsdelightful children impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort if we except perhaps mrs sucklings own family and mrs bragges but mrs smallridge is intimate with both and in the very same neighbourhoodlives only four miles from maple grove jane will be only four miles from maple grove mrs elton i suppose has been the person to whom miss fairfax owes yes our good mrs elton the most indefatigable true friend she would not take a denial she would not let jane say no for when jane first heard of it it was the day before yesterday the very morning we were at donwell when jane first heard of it she was quite decided against accepting the offer and for the reasons you mention exactly as you say she had made up her mind to close with nothing till colonel campbells return and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at presentand so she told mrs elton over and over againand i am sure i had no more idea that she would change her mindbut that good mrs elton whose judgment never fails her saw farther than i did it is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did and refuse to take janes answer but she positively declared she would not write any such denial yesterday as jane wished her she would waitand sure enough yesterday evening it was all settled that jane should go quite a surprize to me i had not the least ideajane took mrs elton aside and told her at once that upon thinking over the advantages of mrs smallridges situation she had come to the resolution of accepting iti did not know a word of it till it was all settled you spent the evening with mrs elton yes all of us mrs elton would have us come it was settled so upon the hill while we were walking about with mr knightley you must all spend your evening with us said shei positively must have you all come mr knightley was there too was he no not mr knightley he declined it from the first and though i thought he would come because mrs elton declared she would not let him off he did notbut my mother and jane and i were all there and a very agreeable evening we had such kind friends you know miss woodhouse one must always find agreeable though every body seemed rather fagged after the mornings party even pleasure you know is fatiguingand i cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it however i shall always think it a very pleasant party and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it miss fairfax i suppose though you were not aware of it had been making up her mind the whole day i dare say she had whenever the time may come it must be unwelcome to her and all her friendsbut i hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possiblei mean as to the character and manners of the family thank you dear miss woodhouse yes indeed there is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it except the sucklings and bragges there is not such another nursery establishment so liberal and elegant in all mrs eltons acquaintance mrs smallridge a most delightful womana style of living almost equal to maple groveand as to the children except the little sucklings and little bragges there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere jane will be treated with such regard and kindnessit will be nothing but pleasure a life of pleasureand her salaryi really cannot venture to name her salary to you miss woodhouse even you used as you are to great sums would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like jane ah madam cried emma if other children are at all like what i remember to have been myself i should think five times the amount of what i have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions dearly earned you are so noble in your ideas and when is miss fairfax to leave you very soon very soon indeed thats the worst of it within a fortnight mrs smallridge is in a great hurry my poor mother does not know how to bear it so then i try to put it out of her thoughts and say come maam do not let us think about it any more her friends must all be sorry to lose her and will not colonel and mrs campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their return yes jane says she is sure they will but yet this is such a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining i was so astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to mrs elton and when mrs elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it it was before teastayno it could not be before tea because we were just going to cardsand yet it was before tea because i remember thinkingoh no now i recollect now i have it something happened before tea but not that mr elton was called out of the room before tea old john abdys son wanted to speak with him poor old john i have a great regard for him he was clerk to my poor father twentyseven years and now poor old man he is bedridden and very poorly with the rheumatic gout in his jointsi must go and see him today and so will jane i am sure if she gets out at all and poor johns son came to talk to mr elton about relief from the parish he is very well to do himself you know being head man at the crown ostler and every thing of that sort but still he cannot keep his father without some help and so when mr elton came back he told us what john ostler had been telling him and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to randalls to take mr frank churchill to richmond that was what happened before tea it was after tea that jane spoke to mrs elton miss bates would hardly give emma time to say how perfectly new this circumstance was to her but as without supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of mr frank churchills going she proceeded to give them all it was of no consequence what mr elton had learned from the ostler on the subject being the accumulation of the ostlers own knowledge and the knowledge of the servants at randalls was that a messenger had come over from richmond soon after the return of the party from box hillwhich messenger however had been no more than was expected and that mr churchill had sent his nephew a few lines containing upon the whole a tolerable account of mrs churchill and only wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early but that mr frank churchill having resolved to go home directly without waiting at all and his horse seeming to have got a cold tom had been sent off immediately for the crown chaise and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by the boy going a good pace and driving very steady there was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest and it caught emmas attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged her mind the contrast between mrs churchills importance in the world and jane fairfaxs struck her one was every thing the other nothingand she sat musing on the difference of womans destiny and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed till roused by miss batess saying aye i see what you are thinking of the pianoforte what is to become of thatvery true poor dear jane was talking of it just nowyou must go said she you and i must part you will have no business herelet it stay however said she give it houseroom till colonel campbell comes back i shall talk about it to him he will settle for me he will help me out of all my difficultiesand to this day i do believe she knows not whether it was his present or his daughters now emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte and the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough and with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of the good wishes which she really felt took leave ix emmas pensive meditations as she walked home were not interrupted but on entering the parlour she found those who must rouse her mr knightley and harriet had arrived during her absence and were sitting with her fathermr knightley immediately got up and in a manner decidedly graver than usual said i would not go away without seeing you but i have no time to spare and therefore must now be gone directly i am going to london to spend a few days with john and isabella have you any thing to send or say besides the love which nobody carries nothing at all but is not this a sudden scheme yesratheri have been thinking of it some little time emma was sure he had not forgiven her he looked unlike himself time however she thought would tell him that they ought to be friends again while he stood as if meaning to go but not goingher father began his inquiries well my dear and did you get there safelyand how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughteri dare say they must have been very much obliged to you for coming dear emma has been to call on mrs and miss bates mr knightley as i told you before she is always so attentive to them emmas colour was heightened by this unjust praise and with a smile and shake of the head which spoke much she looked at mr knightleyit seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour as if his eyes received the truth from hers and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured he looked at her with a glow of regard she was warmly gratifiedand in another moment still more so by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his parthe took her handwhether she had not herself made the first motion she could not sayshe might perhaps have rather offered itbut he took her hand pressed it and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lipswhen from some fancy or other he suddenly let it gowhy he should feel such a scruple why he should change his mind when it was all but done she could not perceivehe would have judged better she thought if he had not stoppedthe intention however was indubitable and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry or however else it happened but she thought nothing became him moreit was with him of so simple yet so dignified a natureshe could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction it spoke such perfect amityhe left them immediately afterwardsgone in a moment he always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance emma could not regret her having gone to miss bates but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlierit would have been a great pleasure to talk over jane fairfaxs situation with mr knightleyneither would she regret that he should be going to brunswick square for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyedbut it might have happened at a better timeand to have had longer notice of it would have been pleasanterthey parted thorough friends however she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance and his unfinished gallantryit was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinionhe had been sitting with them half an hour she found it was a pity that she had not come back earlier in the hope of diverting her fathers thoughts from the disagreeableness of mr knightleys going to london and going so suddenly and going on horseback which she knew would be all very bad emma communicated her news of jane fairfax and her dependence on the effect was justified it supplied a very useful checkinterested without disturbing him he had long made up his mind to jane fairfaxs going out as governess and could talk of it cheerfully but mr knightleys going to london had been an unexpected blow i am very glad indeed my dear to hear she is to be so comfortably settled mrs elton is very goodnatured and agreeable and i dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be i hope it is a dry situation and that her health will be taken good care of it ought to be a first object as i am sure poor miss taylors always was with me you know my dear she is going to be to this new lady what miss taylor was to us and i hope she will be better off in one respect and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long the following day brought news from richmond to throw every thing else into the background an express arrived at randalls to announce the death of mrs churchill though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account she had not lived above sixandthirty hours after his return a sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state had carried her off after a short struggle the great mrs churchill was no more it was felt as such things must be felt every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow tenderness towards the departed solicitude for the surviving friends and in a reasonable time curiosity to know where she would be buried goldsmith tells us that when lovely woman stoops to folly she has nothing to do but to die and when she stoops to be disagreeable it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of illfame mrs churchill after being disliked at least twentyfive years was now spoken of with compassionate allowances in one point she was fully justified she had never been admitted before to be seriously ill the event acquitted her of all the fancifulness and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints poor mrs churchill no doubt she had been suffering a great deal more than any body had ever supposedand continual pain would try the temper it was a sad eventa great shockwith all her faults what would mr churchill do without her mr churchills loss would be dreadful indeed mr churchill would never get over iteven mr weston shook his head and looked solemn and said ah poor woman who would have thought it and resolved that his mourning should be as handsome as possible and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense true and steady how it would affect frank was among the earliest thoughts of both it was also a very early speculation with emma the character of mrs churchill the grief of her husbandher mind glanced over them both with awe and compassionand then rested with lightened feelings on how frank might be affected by the event how benefited how freed she saw in a moment all the possible good now an attachment to harriet smith would have nothing to encounter mr churchill independent of his wife was feared by nobody an easy guidable man to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew all that remained to be wished was that the nephew should form the attachment as with all her goodwill in the cause emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion with great selfcommand what ever she might feel of brighter hope she betrayed nothing emma was gratified to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance they spoke therefore of mrs churchills death with mutual forbearance short letters from frank were received at randalls communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans mr churchill was better than could be expected and their first removal on the departure of the funeral for yorkshire was to be to the house of a very old friend in windsor to whom mr churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years at present there was nothing to be done for harriet good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on emmas side it was a more pressing concern to shew attention to jane fairfax whose prospects were closing while harriets opened and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at highbury who wished to shew her kindnessand with emma it was grown into a first wish she had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness and the person whom she had been so many months neglecting was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy she wanted to be of use to her wanted to shew a value for her society and testify respect and consideration she resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at hartfield a note was written to urge it the invitation was refused and by a verbal message miss fairfax was not well enough to write and when mr perry called at hartfield the same morning it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited though against her own consent by himself and that she was suffering under severe headaches and a nervous fever to a degree which made him doubt the possibility of her going to mrs smallridges at the time proposed her health seemed for the moment completely derangedappetite quite goneand though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms nothing touching the pulmonary complaint which was the standing apprehension of the family mr perry was uneasy about her he thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to and that she felt it so herself though she would not own it her spirits seemed overcome her present home he could not but observe was unfavourable to a nervous disorderconfined always to one roomhe could have wished it otherwiseand her good aunt though his very old friend he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description her care and attention could not be questioned they were in fact only too great he very much feared that miss fairfax derived more evil than good from them emma listened with the warmest concern grieved for her more and more and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful to take herbe it only an hour or twofrom her aunt to give her change of air and scene and quiet rational conversation even for an hour or two might do her good and the following morning she wrote again to say in the most feeling language she could command that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that jane would namementioning that she had mr perrys decided opinion in favour of such exercise for his patient the answer was only in this short note miss fairfaxs compliments and thanks but is quite unequal to any exercise emma felt that her own note had deserved something better but it was impossible to quarrel with words whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted in spite of the answer therefore she ordered the carriage and drove to mrs batess in the hope that jane would be induced to join herbut it would not domiss bates came to the carriage door all gratitude and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest serviceand every thing that message could do was triedbut all in vain miss bates was obliged to return without success jane was quite unpersuadable the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worseemma wished she could have seen her and tried her own powers but almost before she could hint the wish miss bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let miss woodhouse in indeed the truth was that poor dear jane could not bear to see any bodyany body at allmrs elton indeed could not be deniedand mrs cole had made such a pointand mrs perry had said so muchbut except them jane would really see nobody emma did not want to be classed with the mrs eltons the mrs perrys and the mrs coles who would force themselves anywhere neither could she feel any right of preference herselfshe submitted therefore and only questioned miss bates farther as to her nieces appetite and diet which she longed to be able to assist on that subject poor miss bates was very unhappy and very communicative jane would hardly eat any thingmr perry recommended nourishing food but every thing they could command and never had any body such good neighbours was distasteful emma on reaching home called the housekeeper directly to an examination of her stores and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to miss bates with a most friendly note in half an hour the arrowroot was returned with a thousand thanks from miss bates but dear jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back it was a thing she could not takeand moreover she insisted on her saying that she was not at all in want of any thing when emma afterwards heard that jane fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows at some distance from highbury on the afternoon of the very day on which she had under the plea of being unequal to any exercise so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage she could have no doubtputting every thing togetherthat jane was resolved to receive no kindness from her she was sorry very sorry her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits inconsistency of action and inequality of powers and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling or esteemed so little worthy as a friend but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good and of being able to say to herself that could mr knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting jane fairfax could he even have seen into her heart he would not on this occasion have found any thing to reprove x one morning about ten days after mrs churchills decease emma was called downstairs to mr weston who could not stay five minutes and wanted particularly to speak with herhe met her at the parlourdoor and hardly asking her how she did in the natural key of his voice sunk it immediately to say unheard by her father can you come to randalls at any time this morningdo if it be possible mrs weston wants to see you she must see you is she unwell no no not at allonly a little agitated she would have ordered the carriage and come to you but she must see you alone and that you knownodding towards her fatherhumphcan you come certainly this moment if you please it is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way but what can be the matteris she really not ill depend upon mebut ask no more questions you will know it all in time the most unaccountable business but hush hush to guess what all this meant was impossible even for emma something really important seemed announced by his looks but as her friend was well she endeavoured not to be uneasy and settling it with her father that she would take her walk now she and mr weston were soon out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for randalls nowsaid emma when they were fairly beyond the sweep gatesnow mr weston do let me know what has happened no nohe gravely replieddont ask me i promised my wife to leave it all to her she will break it to you better than i can do not be impatient emma it will all come out too soon break it to me cried emma standing still with terrorgood godmr weston tell me at oncesomething has happened in brunswick square i know it has tell me i charge you tell me this moment what it is no indeed you are mistaken mr weston do not trifle with meconsider how many of my dearest friends are now in brunswick square which of them is iti charge you by all that is sacred not to attempt concealment upon my word emma your wordwhy not your honourwhy not say upon your honour that it has nothing to do with any of them good heavenswhat can be to be broke to me that does not relate to one of that family upon my honour said he very seriously it does not it is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of knightley emmas courage returned and she walked on i was wrong he continued in talking of its being broke to you i should not have used the expression in fact it does not concern youit concerns only myselfthat is we hopehumphin short my dear emma there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it i dont say that it is not a disagreeable businessbut things might be much worseif we walk fast we shall soon be at randalls emma found that she must wait and now it required little effort she asked no more questions therefore merely employed her own fancy and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concernsomething just come to light of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the familysomething which the late event at richmond had brought forward her fancy was very active half a dozen natural children perhapsand poor frank cut offthis though very undesirable would be no matter of agony to her it inspired little more than an animating curiosity who is that gentleman on horseback said she as they proceededspeaking more to assist mr weston in keeping his secret than with any other view i do not knowone of the otwaysnot frankit is not frank i assure you you will not see him he is half way to windsor by this time has your son been with you then oh yesdid not you knowwell well never mind for a moment he was silent and then added in a tone much more guarded and demure yes frank came over this morning just to ask us how we did they hurried on and were speedily at randallswell my dear said he as they entered the roomi have brought her and now i hope you will soon be better i shall leave you together there is no use in delay i shall not be far off if you want meand emma distinctly heard him add in a lower tone before he quitted the roomi have been as good as my word she has not the least idea mrs weston was looking so ill and had an air of so much perturbation that emmas uneasiness increased and the moment they were alone she eagerly said what is it my dear friend something of a very unpleasant nature i find has occurreddo let me know directly what it is i have been walking all this way in complete suspense we both abhor suspense do not let mine continue longer it will do you good to speak of your distress whatever it may be have you indeed no idea said mrs weston in a trembling voice cannot you my dear emmacannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear so far as that it relates to mr frank churchill i do guess you are right it does relate to him and i will tell you directly resuming her work and seeming resolved against looking up he has been here this very morning on a most extraordinary errand it is impossible to express our surprize he came to speak to his father on a subjectto announce an attachment she stopped to breathe emma thought first of herself and then of harriet more than an attachment indeed resumed mrs weston an engagementa positive engagementwhat will you say emmawhat will any body say when it is known that frank churchill and miss fairfax are engagednay that they have been long engaged emma even jumped with surprizeand horrorstruck exclaimed jane fairfaxgood god you are not serious you do not mean it you may well be amazed returned mrs weston still averting her eyes and talking on with eagerness that emma might have time to recover you may well be amazed but it is even so there has been a solemn engagement between them ever since octoberformed at weymouth and kept a secret from every body not a creature knowing it but themselvesneither the campbells nor her family nor hisit is so wonderful that though perfectly convinced of the fact it is yet almost incredible to myself i can hardly believe iti thought i knew him emma scarcely heard what was saidher mind was divided between two ideasher own former conversations with him about miss fairfax and poor harrietand for some time she could only exclaim and require confirmation repeated confirmation well said she at last trying to recover herself this is a circumstance which i must think of at least half a day before i can at all comprehend it whatengaged to her all the winterbefore either of them came to highbury engaged since octobersecretly engagedit has hurt me emma very much it has hurt his father equally some part of his conduct we cannot excuse emma pondered a moment and then replied i will not pretend not to understand you and to give you all the relief in my power be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me as you are apprehensive of mrs weston looked up afraid to believe but emmas countenance was as steady as her words that you may have less difficulty in believing this boast of my present perfect indifference she continued i will farther tell you that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance when i did like him when i was very much disposed to be attached to himnay was attachedand how it came to cease is perhaps the wonder fortunately however it did cease i have really for some time past for at least these three months cared nothing about him you may believe me mrs weston this is the simple truth mrs weston kissed her with tears of joy and when she could find utterance assured her that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do mr weston will be almost as much relieved as myself said she on this point we have been wretched it was our darling wish that you might be attached to each otherand we were persuaded that it was so imagine what we have been feeling on your account i have escaped and that i should escape may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself but this does not acquit him mrs weston and i must say that i think him greatly to blame what right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged and with manners so very disengaged what right had he to endeavour to please as he certainly didto distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention as he certainly didwhile he really belonged to anotherhow could he tell what mischief he might be doinghow could he tell that he might not be making me in love with himvery wrong very wrong indeed from something that he said my dear emma i rather imagine and how could she bear such behaviour composure with a witness to look on while repeated attentions were offering to another woman before her face and not resent itthat is a degree of placidity which i can neither comprehend nor respect there were misunderstandings between them emma he said so expressly he had not time to enter into much explanation he was here only a quarter of an hour and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time he could staybut that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said the present crisis indeed seemed to be brought on by them and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct impropriety oh mrs westonit is too calm a censure much much beyond improprietyit has sunk him i cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion so unlike what a man should benone of that upright integrity that strict adherence to truth and principle that disdain of trick and littleness which a man should display in every transaction of his life nay dear emma now i must take his part for though he has been wrong in this instance i have known him long enough to answer for his having many very many good qualities and good god cried emma not attending to hermrs smallridge too jane actually on the point of going as governess what could he mean by such horrible indelicacy to suffer her to engage herselfto suffer her even to think of such a measure he knew nothing about it emma on this article i can fully acquit him it was a private resolution of hers not communicated to himor at least not communicated in a way to carry convictiontill yesterday i know he said he was in the dark as to her plans they burst on him i do not know how but by some letter or messageand it was the discovery of what she was doing of this very project of hers which determined him to come forward at once own it all to his uncle throw himself on his kindness and in short put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long emma began to listen better i am to hear from him soon continued mrs weston he told me at parting that he should soon write and he spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now let us wait therefore for this letter it may bring many extenuations it may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be understood dont let us be severe dont let us be in a hurry to condemn him let us have patience i must love him and now that i am satisfied on one point the one material point i am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well and ready to hope that it may they must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and concealment his sufferings replied emma dryly do not appear to have done him much harm well and how did mr churchill take it most favourably for his nephewgave his consent with scarcely a difficulty conceive what the events of a week have done in that family while poor mrs churchill lived i suppose there could not have been a hope a chance a possibilitybut scarcely are her remains at rest in the family vault than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would have required what a blessing it is when undue influence does not survive the gravehe gave his consent with very little persuasion ah thought emma he would have done as much for harriet this was settled last night and frank was off with the light this morning he stopped at highbury at the batess i fancy some timeand then came on hither but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle to whom he is just now more necessary than ever that as i tell you he could stay with us but a quarter of an hourhe was very much agitatedvery much indeedto a degree that made him appear quite a different creature from any thing i had ever seen him beforein addition to all the rest there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell which he had had no previous suspicion ofand there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal and do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secresythe campbells the dixons did none of them know of the engagement emma could not speak the name of dixon without a little blush none not one he positively said that it had been known to no being in the world but their two selves well said emma i suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea and i wish them very happy but i shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding what has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceitespionage and treacheryto come among us with professions of openness and simplicity and such a league in secret to judge us allhere have we been the whole winter and spring completely duped fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hearthey must take the consequence if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable i am quite easy on that head replied mrs weston i am very sure that i never said any thing of either to the other which both might not have heard you are in luckyour only blunder was confined to my ear when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady true but as i have always had a thoroughly good opinion of miss fairfax i never could under any blunder have spoken ill of her and as to speaking ill of him there i must have been safe at this moment mr weston appeared at a little distance from the window evidently on the watch his wife gave him a look which invited him in and while he was coming round added now dearest emma let me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease and incline him to be satisfied with the match let us make the best of itand indeed almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour it is not a connexion to gratify but if mr churchill does not feel that why should we and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him for frank i mean that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as i have always given her credit forand still am disposed to give her credit for in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right and how much may be said in her situation for even that error much indeed cried emma feelingly if a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself it is in a situation like jane fairfaxsof such one may almost say that the world is not theirs nor the worlds law she met mr weston on his entrance with a smiling countenance exclaiming a very pretty trick you have been playing me upon my word this was a device i suppose to sport with my curiosity and exercise my talent of guessing but you really frightened me i thought you had lost half your property at least and here instead of its being a matter of condolence it turns out to be one of congratulationi congratulate you mr weston with all my heart on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in england for your daughter a glance or two between him and his wife convinced him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed and its happy effect on his spirits was immediate his air and voice recovered their usual briskness he shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand and entered on the subject in a manner to prove that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing his companions suggested only what could palliate imprudence or smooth objections and by the time they had talked it all over together and he had talked it all over again with emma in their walk back to hartfield he was become perfectly reconciled and not far from thinking it the very best thing that frank could possibly have done xi harriet poor harrietthose were the words in them lay the tormenting ideas which emma could not get rid of and which constituted the real misery of the business to her frank churchill had behaved very ill by herselfvery ill in many waysbut it was not so much his behaviour as her own which made her so angry with him it was the scrape which he had drawn her into on harriets account that gave the deepest hue to his offencepoor harriet to be a second time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery mr knightley had spoken prophetically when he once said emma you have been no friend to harriet smithshe was afraid she had done her nothing but disserviceit was true that she had not to charge herself in this instance as in the former with being the sole and original author of the mischief with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have entered harriets imagination for harriet had acknowledged her admiration and preference of frank churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the subject but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed she might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments her influence would have been enough and now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented themshe felt that she had been risking her friends happiness on most insufficient grounds common sense would have directed her to tell harriet that she must not allow herself to think of him and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for herbut with common sense she added i am afraid i have had little to do she was extremely angry with herself if she could not have been angry with frank churchill too it would have been dreadfulas for jane fairfax she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her account harriet would be anxiety enough she need no longer be unhappy about jane whose troubles and whose illhealth having of course the same origin must be equally under cureher days of insignificance and evil were overshe would soon be well and happy and prosperousemma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted this discovery laid many smaller matters open no doubt it had been from jealousyin janes eyes she had been a rival and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed an airing in the hartfield carriage would have been the rack and arrowroot from the hartfield storeroom must have been poison she understood it all and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings she acknowledged that jane fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert but poor harriet was such an engrossing charge there was little sympathy to be spared for any body else emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first considering the very superior claims of the object it ought and judging by its apparently stronger effect on harriets mind producing reserve and selfcommand it wouldshe must communicate the painful truth however and as soon as possible an injunction of secresy had been among mr westons parting words for the present the whole affair was to be completely a secret mr churchill had made a point of it as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorumemma had promised but still harriet must be excepted it was her superior duty in spite of her vexation she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by harriet which mrs weston had just gone through by herself the intelligence which had been so anxiously announced to her she was now to be anxiously announcing to another her heart beat quick on hearing harriets footstep and voice so she supposed had poor mrs weston felt when she was approaching randalls could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblancebut of that unfortunately there could be no chance well miss woodhouse cried harriet coming eagerly into the roomis not this the oddest news that ever was what news do you mean replied emma unable to guess by look or voice whether harriet could indeed have received any hint about jane fairfax did you ever hear any thing so strange ohyou need not be afraid of owning it to me for mr weston has told me himself i met him just now he told me it was to be a great secret and therefore i should not think of mentioning it to any body but you but he said you knew it what did mr weston tell yousaid emma still perplexed oh he told me all about it that jane fairfax and mr frank churchill are to be married and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while how very odd it was indeed so odd harriets behaviour was so extremely odd that emma did not know how to understand it her character appeared absolutely changed she seemed to propose shewing no agitation or disappointment or peculiar concern in the discovery emma looked at her quite unable to speak had you any idea cried harriet of his being in love with heryou perhaps mightyou blushing as she spoke who can see into every bodys heart but nobody else upon my word said emma i begin to doubt my having any such talent can you seriously ask me harriet whether i imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that i wastacitly if not openlyencouraging you to give way to your own feelingsi never had the slightest suspicion till within the last hour of mr frank churchills having the least regard for jane fairfax you may be very sure that if i had i should have cautioned you accordingly me cried harriet colouring and astonished why should you caution meyou do not think i care about mr frank churchill i am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject replied emma smiling but you do not mean to deny that there was a timeand not very distant eitherwhen you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him himnever never dear miss woodhouse how could you so mistake me turning away distressed harriet cried emma after a moments pausewhat do you meangood heaven what do you meanmistake youam i to suppose then she could not speak another wordher voice was lost and she sat down waiting in great terror till harriet should answer harriet who was standing at some distance and with face turned from her did not immediately say any thing and when she did speak it was in a voice nearly as agitated as emmas i should not have thought it possible she began that you could have misunderstood me i know we agreed never to name himbut considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else i should not have thought it possible that i could be supposed to mean any other person mr frank churchill indeed i do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other i hope i have a better taste than to think of mr frank churchill who is like nobody by his side and that you should have been so mistaken is amazingi am sure but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment i should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost to dare to think of him at first if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened that there had been matches of greater disparity those were your very wordsi should not have dared to give way toi should not have thought it possiblebut if you who had been always acquainted with him harriet cried emma collecting herself resolutelylet us understand each other now without the possibility of farther mistake are you speaking ofmr knightley to be sure i am i never could have an idea of any body elseand so i thought you knew when we talked about him it was as clear as possible not quite returned emma with forced calmness for all that you then said appeared to me to relate to a different person i could almost assert that you had named mr frank churchill i am sure the service mr frank churchill had rendered you in protecting you from the gipsies was spoken of oh miss woodhouse how you do forget my dear harriet i perfectly remember the substance of what i said on the occasion i told you that i did not wonder at your attachment that considering the service he had rendered you it was extremely naturaland you agreed to it expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescuethe impression of it is strong on my memory oh dear cried harriet now i recollect what you mean but i was thinking of something very different at the time it was not the gipsiesit was not mr frank churchill that i meant no with some elevation i was thinking of a much more precious circumstanceof mr knightleys coming and asking me to dance when mr elton would not stand up with me and when there was no other partner in the room that was the kind action that was the noble benevolence and generosity that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth good god cried emma this has been a most unfortunatemost deplorable mistakewhat is to be done you would not have encouraged me then if you had understood me at least however i cannot be worse off than i should have been if the other had been the person and nowit is possible she paused a few moments emma could not speak i do not wonder miss woodhouse she resumed that you should feel a great difference between the two as to me or as to any body you must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other but i hope miss woodhouse that supposingthat ifstrange as it may appear but you know they were your own words that more wonderful things had happened matches of greater disparity had taken place than between mr frank churchill and me and therefore it seems as if such a thing even as this may have occurred beforeand if i should be so fortunate beyond expression as toif mr knightley should reallyif he does not mind the disparity i hope dear miss woodhouse you will not set yourself against it and try to put difficulties in the way but you are too good for that i am sure harriet was standing at one of the windows emma turned round to look at her in consternation and hastily said have you any idea of mr knightleys returning your affection yes replied harriet modestly but not fearfullyi must say that i have emmas eyes were instantly withdrawn and she sat silently meditating in a fixed attitude for a few minutes a few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart a mind like hers once opening to suspicion made rapid progress she touchedshe admittedshe acknowledged the whole truth why was it so much worse that harriet should be in love with mr knightley than with frank churchill why was the evil so dreadfully increased by harriets having some hope of a return it darted through her with the speed of an arrow that mr knightley must marry no one but herself her own conduct as well as her own heart was before her in the same few minutes she saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before how improperly had she been acting by harriet how inconsiderate how indelicate how irrational how unfeeling had been her conduct what blindness what madness had led her on it struck her with dreadful force and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world some portion of respect for herself however in spite of all these demeritssome concern for her own appearance and a strong sense of justice by harrietthere would be no need of compassion to the girl who believed herself loved by mr knightleybut justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now gave emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness with even apparent kindnessfor her own advantage indeed it was fit that the utmost extent of harriets hopes should be enquired into and harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintainedor to deserve to be slighted by the person whose counsels had never led her rightrousing from reflection therefore and subduing her emotion she turned to harriet again and in a more inviting accent renewed the conversation for as to the subject which had first introduced it the wonderful story of jane fairfax that was quite sunk and lostneither of them thought but of mr knightley and themselves harriet who had been standing in no unhappy reverie was yet very glad to be called from it by the now encouraging manner of such a judge and such a friend as miss woodhouse and only wanted invitation to give the history of her hopes with great though trembling delightemmas tremblings as she asked and as she listened were better concealed than harriets but they were not less her voice was not unsteady but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self such a burst of threatening evil such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions must createshe listened with much inward suffering but with great outward patience to harriets detailmethodical or well arranged or very well delivered it could not be expected to be but it contained when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration a substance to sink her spiritespecially with the corroborating circumstances which her own memory brought in favour of mr knightleys most improved opinion of harriet harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dancesemma knew that he had on that occasion found her much superior to his expectation from that evening or at least from the time of miss woodhouses encouraging her to think of him harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards her a manner of kindness and sweetnesslatterly she had been more and more aware of it when they had been all walking together he had so often come and walked by her and talked so very delightfullyhe seemed to want to be acquainted with her emma knew it to have been very much the case she had often observed the change to almost the same extentharriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from himand emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of harriet he praised her for being without art or affectation for having simple honest generous feelingsshe knew that he saw such recommendations in harriet he had dwelt on them to her more than oncemuch that lived in harriets memory many little particulars of the notice she had received from him a look a speech a removal from one chair to another a compliment implied a preference inferred had been unnoticed because unsuspected by emma circumstances that might swell to half an hours relation and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them but the two latest occurrences to be mentioned the two of strongest promise to harriet were not without some degree of witness from emma herselfthe first was his walking with her apart from the others in the limewalk at donwell where they had been walking some time before emma came and he had taken pains as she was convinced to draw her from the rest to himselfand at first he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done before in a very particular way indeedharriet could not recall it without a blush he seemed to be almost asking her whether her affections were engagedbut as soon as she miss woodhouse appeared likely to join them he changed the subject and began talking about farmingthe second was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before emma came back from her visit the very last morning of his being at hartfieldthough when he first came in he had said that he could not stay five minutesand his having told her during their conversation that though he must go to london it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all which was much more as emma felt than he had acknowledged to her the superior degree of confidence towards harriet which this one article marked gave her severe pain on the subject of the first of the two circumstances she did after a little reflection venture the following question might he notis not it possible that when enquiring as you thought into the state of your affections he might be alluding to mr martinhe might have mr martins interest in view but harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit mr martin no indeedthere was not a hint of mr martin i hope i know better now than to care for mr martin or to be suspected of it when harriet had closed her evidence she appealed to her dear miss woodhouse to say whether she had not good ground for hope i never should have presumed to think of it at first said she but for you you told me to observe him carefully and let his behaviour be the rule of mineand so i have but now i seem to feel that i may deserve him and that if he does chuse me it will not be any thing so very wonderful the bitter feelings occasioned by this speech the many bitter feelings made the utmost exertion necessary on emmas side to enable her to say on reply harriet i will only venture to declare that mr knightley is the last man in the world who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory and emma was only saved from raptures and fondness which at that moment would have been dreadful penance by the sound of her fathers footsteps he was coming through the hall harriet was too much agitated to encounter him she could not compose herself mr woodhouse would be alarmedshe had better gowith most ready encouragement from her friend therefore she passed off through another doorand the moment she was gone this was the spontaneous burst of emmas feelings oh god that i had never seen her the rest of the day the following night were hardly enough for her thoughtsshe was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours every moment had brought a fresh surprize and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to herhow to understand it all how to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself and living underthe blunders the blindness of her own head and heartshe sat still she walked about she tried her own room she tried the shrubberyin every place every posture she perceived that she had acted most weakly that she had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree that she had been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying that she was wretched and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness to understand thoroughly understand her own heart was the first endeavour to that point went every leisure moment which her fathers claims on her allowed and every moment of involuntary absence of mind how long had mr knightley been so dear to her as every feeling declared him now to be when had his influence such influence begun when had he succeeded to that place in her affection which frank churchill had once for a short period occupiedshe looked back she compared the twocompared them as they had always stood in her estimation from the time of the latters becoming known to herand as they must at any time have been compared by her had itoh had it by any blessed felicity occurred to her to institute the comparisonshe saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider mr knightley as infinitely the superior or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear she saw that in persuading herself in fancying in acting to the contrary she had been entirely under a delusion totally ignorant of her own heartand in short that she had never really cared for frank churchill at all this was the conclusion of the first series of reflection this was the knowledge of herself on the first question of inquiry which she reached and without being long in reaching itshe was most sorrowfully indignant ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to herher affection for mr knightleyevery other part of her mind was disgusting with insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every bodys feelings with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every bodys destiny she was proved to have been universally mistaken and she had not quite done nothingfor she had done mischief she had brought evil on harriet on herself and she too much feared on mr knightleywere this most unequal of all connexions to take place on her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning for his attachment she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of harrietsand even were this not the case he would never have known harriet at all but for her folly mr knightley and harriet smithit was a union to distance every wonder of the kindthe attachment of frank churchill and jane fairfax became commonplace threadbare stale in the comparison exciting no surprize presenting no disparity affording nothing to be said or thoughtmr knightley and harriet smithsuch an elevation on her side such a debasement on his it was horrible to emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion to foresee the smiles the sneers the merriment it would prompt at his expense the mortification and disdain of his brother the thousand inconveniences to himselfcould it beno it was impossible and yet it was far very far from impossiblewas it a new circumstance for a man of firstrate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers was it new for one perhaps too busy to seek to be the prize of a girl who would seek himwas it new for any thing in this world to be unequal inconsistent incongruousor for chance and circumstance as second causes to direct the human fate oh had she never brought harriet forward had she left her where she ought and where he had told her she oughthad she not with a folly which no tongue could express prevented her marrying the unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life to which she ought to belongall would have been safe none of this dreadful sequel would have been how harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to mr knightleyhow she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of itbut harriet was less humble had fewer scruples than formerlyher inferiority whether of mind or situation seemed little feltshe had seemed more sensible of mr eltons being to stoop in marrying her than she now seemed of mr knightleysalas was not that her own doing too who had been at pains to give harriet notions of selfconsequence but herselfwho but herself had taught her that she was to elevate herself if possible and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishmentif harriet from being humble were grown vain it was her doing too xii till now that she was threatened with its loss emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being first with mr knightley first in interest and affectionsatisfied that it was so and feeling it her due she had enjoyed it without reflection and only in the dread of being supplanted found how inexpressibly important it had beenlong very long she felt she had been first for having no female connexions of his own there had been only isabella whose claims could be compared with hers and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed isabella she had herself been first with him for many years past she had not deserved it she had often been negligent or perverse slighting his advice or even wilfully opposing him insensible of half his merits and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her ownbut still from family attachment and habit and thorough excellence of mind he had loved her and watched over her from a girl with an endeavour to improve her and an anxiety for her doing right which no other creature had at all shared in spite of all her faults she knew she was dear to him might she not say very dearwhen the suggestions of hope however which must follow here presented themselves she could not presume to indulge them harriet smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly exclusively passionately loved by mr knightley she could not she could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to her she had received a very recent proof of its impartialityhow shocked had he been by her behaviour to miss bates how directly how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subjectnot too strongly for the offencebut far far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clearsighted goodwillshe had no hope nothing to deserve the name of hope that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question but there was a hope at times a slight one at times much stronger that harriet might have deceived herself and be overrating his regard for herwish it she must for his sakebe the consequence nothing to herself but his remaining single all his life could she be secure of that indeed of his never marrying at all she believed she should be perfectly satisfiedlet him but continue the same mr knightley to her and her father the same mr knightley to all the world let donwell and hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence and her peace would be fully securedmarriage in fact would not do for her it would be incompatible with what she owed to her father and with what she felt for him nothing should separate her from her father she would not marry even if she were asked by mr knightley it must be her ardent wish that harriet might be disappointed and she hoped that when able to see them together again she might at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it wereshe should see them henceforward with the closest observance and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded herehe was expected back every day the power of observation would be soon givenfrightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course in the meanwhile she resolved against seeing harrietit would do neither of them good it would do the subject no good to be talking of it farthershe was resolved not to be convinced as long as she could doubt and yet had no authority for opposing harriets confidence to talk would be only to irritateshe wrote to her therefore kindly but decisively to beg that she would not at present come to hartfield acknowledging it to be her conviction that all farther confidential discussion of one topic had better be avoided and hoping that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again except in the company of othersshe objected only to a têteàtêtethey might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterdayharriet submitted and approved and was grateful this point was just arranged when a visitor arrived to tear emmas thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them sleeping or waking the last twentyfour hoursmrs weston who had been calling on her daughterinlaw elect and took hartfield in her way home almost as much in duty to emma as in pleasure to herself to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview mr weston had accompanied her to mrs batess and gone through his share of this essential attention most handsomely but she having then induced miss fairfax to join her in an airing was now returned with much more to say and much more to say with satisfaction than a quarter of an hour spent in mrs batess parlour with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings could have afforded a little curiosity emma had and she made the most of it while her friend related mrs weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation herself and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present to be allowed merely to write to miss fairfax instead and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed and mr churchill could be reconciled to the engagements becoming known as considering every thing she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reportsbut mr weston had thought differently he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to miss fairfax and her family and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it or if it were that it would be of any consequence for such things he observed always got about emma smiled and felt that mr weston had very good reason for saying so they had gone in shortand very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady she had hardly been able to speak a word and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness the quiet heartfelt satisfaction of the old lady and the rapturous delight of her daughterwho proved even too joyous to talk as usual had been a gratifying yet almost an affecting scene they were both so truly respectable in their happiness so disinterested in every sensation thought so much of jane so much of every body and so little of themselves that every kindly feeling was at work for them miss fairfaxs recent illness had offered a fair plea for mrs weston to invite her to an airing she had drawn back and declined at first but on being pressed had yielded and in the course of their drive mrs weston had by gentle encouragement overcome so much of her embarrassment as to bring her to converse on the important subject apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and mr weston must necessarily open the cause but when these effusions were put by they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement mrs weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject on the misery of what she had suffered during the concealment of so many months continued mrs weston she was energetic this was one of her expressions i will not say that since i entered into the engagement i have not had some happy moments but i can say that i have never known the blessing of one tranquil hourand the quivering lip emma which uttered it was an attestation that i felt at my heart poor girl said emma she thinks herself wrong then for having consented to a private engagement wrong no one i believe can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself the consequence said she has been a state of perpetual suffering to me and so it ought but after all the punishment that misconduct can bring it is still not less misconduct pain is no expiation i never can be blameless i have been acting contrary to all my sense of right and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken and the kindness i am now receiving is what my conscience tells me ought not to be do not imagine madam she continued that i was taught wrong do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up the error has been all my own and i do assure you that with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give i shall yet dread making the story known to colonel campbell poor girl said emma again she loves him then excessively i suppose it must have been from attachment only that she could be led to form the engagement her affection must have overpowered her judgment yes i have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him i am afraid returned emma sighing that i must often have contributed to make her unhappy on your side my love it was very innocently done but she probably had something of that in her thoughts when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before one natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in she said was that of making her unreasonable the consciousness of having done amiss had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have beenthat had beenhard for him to bear i did not make the allowances said she which i ought to have done for his temper and spiritshis delightful spirits and that gaiety that playfulness of disposition which under any other circumstances would i am sure have been as constantly bewitching to me as they were at first she then began to speak of you and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected desired me whenever i had an opportunity to thank youi could not thank you too muchfor every wish and every endeavour to do her good she was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself if i did not know her to be happy now said emma seriously which in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience she must be i could not bear these thanksfor oh mrs weston if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good i have done miss fairfaxwell checking herself and trying to be more lively this is all to be forgotten you are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars they shew her to the greatest advantage i am sure she is very goodi hope she will be very happy it is fit that the fortune should be on his side for i think the merit will be all on hers such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by mrs weston she thought well of frank in almost every respect and what was more she loved him very much and her defence was therefore earnest she talked with a great deal of reason and at least equal affectionbut she had too much to urge for emmas attention it was soon gone to brunswick square or to donwell she forgot to attempt to listen and when mrs weston ended with we have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for you know but i hope it will soon come she was obliged to pause before she answered and at last obliged to answer at random before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for are you well my emma was mrs westons parting question oh perfectly i am always well you know be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible mrs westons communications furnished emma with more food for unpleasant reflection by increasing her esteem and compassion and her sense of past injustice towards miss fairfax she bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been in some measure the cause had she followed mr knightleys known wishes in paying that attention to miss fairfax which was every way her due had she tried to know her better had she done her part towards intimacy had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in harriet smith she must in all probability have been spared from every pain which pressed on her nowbirth abilities and education had been equally marking one as an associate for her to be received with gratitude and the otherwhat was shesupposing even that they had never become intimate friends that she had never been admitted into miss fairfaxs confidence on this important matterwhich was most probablestill in knowing her as she ought and as she might she must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to mr dixon which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself but had so unpardonably imparted an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of janes feelings by the levity or carelessness of frank churchills of all the sources of evil surrounding the former since her coming to highbury she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst she must have been a perpetual enemy they never could have been all three together without her having stabbed jane fairfaxs peace in a thousand instances and on box hill perhaps it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more the evening of this day was very long and melancholy at hartfield the weather added what it could of gloom a cold stormy rain set in and nothing of july appeared but in the trees and shrubs which the wind was despoiling and the length of the day which only made such cruel sights the longer visible the weather affected mr woodhouse and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughters side and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before it reminded her of their first forlorn têteàtête on the evening of mrs westons weddingday but mr knightley had walked in then soon after tea and dissipated every melancholy fancy alas such delightful proofs of hartfields attraction as those sort of visits conveyed might shortly be over the picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter had proved erroneous no friends had deserted them no pleasures had been lostbut her present forebodings she feared would experience no similar contradiction the prospect before her now was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelledthat might not be even partially brightened if all took place that might take place among the circle of her friends hartfield must be comparatively deserted and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness the child to be born at randalls must be a tie there even dearer than herself and mrs westons heart and time would be occupied by it they should lose her and probably in great measure her husband alsofrank churchill would return among them no more and miss fairfax it was reasonable to suppose would soon cease to belong to highbury they would be married and settled either at or near enscombe all that were good would be withdrawn and if to these losses the loss of donwell were to be added what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach mr knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfortno longer walking in at all hours as if ever willing to change his own home for theirshow was it to be endured and if he were to be lost to them for harriets sake if he were to be thought of hereafter as finding in harriets society all that he wanted if harriet were to be the chosen the first the dearest the friend the wife to whom he looked for all the best blessings of existence what could be increasing emmas wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind that it had been all her own work when it came to such a pitch as this she was not able to refrain from a start or a heavy sigh or even from walking about the room for a few secondsand the only source whence any thing like consolation or composure could be drawn was in the resolution of her own better conduct and the hope that however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be the following and every future winter of her life to the past it would yet find her more rational more acquainted with herself and leave her less to regret when it were gone xiii the weather continued much the same all the following morning and the same loneliness and the same melancholy seemed to reign at hartfieldbut in the afternoon it cleared the wind changed into a softer quarter the clouds were carried off the sun appeared it was summer again with all the eagerness which such a transition gives emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible never had the exquisite sight smell sensation of nature tranquil warm and brilliant after a storm been more attractive to her she longed for the serenity they might gradually introduce and on mr perrys coming in soon after dinner with a disengaged hour to give her father she lost no time in hurrying into the shrubberythere with spirits freshened and thoughts a little relieved she had taken a few turns when she saw mr knightley passing through the garden door and coming towards herit was the first intimation of his being returned from london she had been thinking of him the moment before as unquestionably sixteen miles distantthere was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind she must be collected and calm in half a minute they were together the how dye dos were quiet and constrained on each side she asked after their mutual friends they were all wellwhen had he left themonly that morning he must have had a wet rideyeshe meant to walk with her she found he had just looked into the diningroom and as he was not wanted there preferred being out of doorsshe thought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully and the first possible cause for it suggested by her fears was that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his brother and was pained by the manner in which they had been received they walked together he was silent she thought he was often looking at her and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give and this belief produced another dread perhaps he wanted to speak to her of his attachment to harriet he might be watching for encouragement to beginshe did not could not feel equal to lead the way to any such subject he must do it all himself yet she could not bear this silence with him it was most unnatural she consideredresolvedand trying to smile began you have some news to hear now you are come back that will rather surprize you have i said he quietly and looking at her of what nature oh the best nature in the worlda wedding after waiting a moment as if to be sure she intended to say no more he replied if you mean miss fairfax and frank churchill i have heard that already how is it possible cried emma turning her glowing cheeks towards him for while she spoke it occurred to her that he might have called at mrs goddards in his way i had a few lines on parish business from mr weston this morning and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened emma was quite relieved and could presently say with a little more composure you probably have been less surprized than any of us for you have had your suspicionsi have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a cautioni wish i had attended to itbutwith a sinking voice and a heavy sigh i seem to have been doomed to blindness for a moment or two nothing was said and she was unsuspicious of having excited any particular interest till she found her arm drawn within his and pressed against his heart and heard him thus saying in a tone of great sensibility speaking low time my dearest emma time will heal the woundyour own excellent senseyour exertions for your fathers sakei know you will not allow yourself her arm was pressed again as he added in a more broken and subdued accent the feelings of the warmest friendshipindignationabominable scoundreland in a louder steadier tone he concluded with he will soon be gone they will soon be in yorkshire i am sorry for her she deserves a better fate emma understood him and as soon as she could recover from the flutter of pleasure excited by such tender consideration replied you are very kindbut you are mistakenand i must set you right i am not in want of that sort of compassion my blindness to what was going on led me to act by them in a way that i must always be ashamed of and i was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures but i have no other reason to regret that i was not in the secret earlier emma cried he looking eagerly at her are you indeedbut checking himselfno no i understand youforgive mei am pleased that you can say even so muchhe is no object of regret indeed and it will not be very long i hope before that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reasonfortunate that your affections were not farther entangledi could never i confess from your manners assure myself as to the degree of what you felti could only be certain that there was a preferenceand a preference which i never believed him to deservehe is a disgrace to the name of manand is he to be rewarded with that sweet young womanjane jane you will be a miserable creature mr knightley said emma trying to be lively but really confusedi am in a very extraordinary situation i cannot let you continue in your error and yet perhaps since my manners gave such an impression i have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that i never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reversebut i never have he listened in perfect silence she wished him to speak but he would not she supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his clemency but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion she went on however i have very little to say for my own conducti was tempted by his attentions and allowed myself to appear pleasedan old story probablya common caseand no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as i do for understanding many circumstances assisted the temptation he was the son of mr westonhe was continually herei always found him very pleasantand in short for with a sigh let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously they all centre in this at lastmy vanity was flattered and i allowed his attentions latterly howeverfor some time indeedi have had no idea of their meaning any thingi thought them a habit a trick nothing that called for seriousness on my side he has imposed on me but he has not injured me i have never been attached to him and now i can tolerably comprehend his behaviour he never wished to attach me it was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with anotherit was his object to blind all about him and no one i am sure could be more effectually blinded than myselfexcept that i was not blindedthat it was my good fortunethat in short i was somehow or other safe from him she had hoped for an answer herefor a few words to say that her conduct was at least intelligible but he was silent and as far as she could judge deep in thought at last and tolerably in his usual tone he said i have never had a high opinion of frank churchilli can suppose however that i may have underrated him my acquaintance with him has been but triflingand even if i have not underrated him hitherto he may yet turn out wellwith such a woman he has a chancei have no motive for wishing him illand for her sake whose happiness will be involved in his good character and conduct i shall certainly wish him well i have no doubt of their being happy together said emma i believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached he is a most fortunate man returned mr knightley with energy so early in lifeat threeandtwentya period when if a man chuses a wife he generally chuses ill at threeandtwenty to have drawn such a prize what years of felicity that man in all human calculation has before himassured of the love of such a womanthe disinterested love for jane fairfaxs character vouches for her disinterestedness every thing in his favourequality of situationi mean as far as regards society and all the habits and manners that are important equality in every point but oneand that one since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted such as must increase his felicity for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wantsa man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from and he who can do it where there is no doubt of her regard must i think be the happiest of mortalsfrank churchill is indeed the favourite of fortune every thing turns out for his goodhe meets with a young woman at a wateringplace gains her affection cannot even weary her by negligent treatmentand had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him they could not have found her superiorhis aunt is in the wayhis aunt dieshe has only to speakhis friends are eager to promote his happinesshe had used every body illand they are all delighted to forgive himhe is a fortunate man indeed you speak as if you envied him and i do envy him emma in one respect he is the object of my envy emma could say no more they seemed to be within half a sentence of harriet and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject if possible she made her plan she would speak of something totally differentthe children in brunswick square and she only waited for breath to begin when mr knightley startled her by saying you will not ask me what is the point of envyyou are determined i see to have no curiosityyou are wisebut i cannot be wise emma i must tell you what you will not ask though i may wish it unsaid the next moment oh then dont speak it dont speak it she eagerly cried take a little time consider do not commit yourself thank you said he in an accent of deep mortification and not another syllable followed emma could not bear to give him pain he was wishing to confide in herperhaps to consult hercost her what it would she would listen she might assist his resolution or reconcile him to it she might give just praise to harriet or by representing to him his own independence relieve him from that state of indecision which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as histhey had reached the house you are going in i suppose said he noreplied emmaquite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he still spokei should like to take another turn mr perry is not gone and after proceeding a few steps she addedi stopped you ungraciously just now mr knightley and i am afraid gave you painbut if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend or to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplationas a friend indeed you may command mei will hear whatever you like i will tell you exactly what i think as a friendrepeated mr knightleyemma that i fear is a wordno i have no wishstay yes why should i hesitatei have gone too far already for concealmentemma i accept your offerextraordinary as it may seem i accept it and refer myself to you as a friendtell me then have i no chance of ever succeeding he stopped in his earnestness to look the question and the expression of his eyes overpowered her my dearest emma said he for dearest you will always be whatever the event of this hours conversation my dearest most beloved emmatell me at once say no if it is to be saidshe could really say nothingyou are silent he cried with great animation absolutely silent at present i ask no more emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment the dread of being awakened from the happiest dream was perhaps the most prominent feeling i cannot make speeches emma he soon resumed and in a tone of such sincere decided intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincingif i loved you less i might be able to talk about it more but you know what i amyou hear nothing but truth from mei have blamed you and lectured you and you have borne it as no other woman in england would have borne itbear with the truths i would tell you now dearest emma as well as you have borne with them the manner perhaps may have as little to recommend them god knows i have been a very indifferent loverbut you understand meyes you see you understand my feelingsand will return them if you can at present i ask only to hear once to hear your voice while he spoke emmas mind was most busy and with all the wonderful velocity of thought had been ableand yet without losing a wordto catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole to see that harriets hopes had been entirely groundless a mistake a delusion as complete a delusion as any of her ownthat harriet was nothing that she was every thing herself that what she had been saying relative to harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings and that her agitation her doubts her reluctance her discouragement had been all received as discouragement from herselfand not only was there time for these convictions with all their glow of attendant happiness there was time also to rejoice that harriets secret had not escaped her and to resolve that it need not and should notit was all the service she could now render her poor friend for as to any of that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to harriet as infinitely the most worthy of the twoor even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever without vouchsafing any motive because he could not marry them both emma had it not she felt for harriet with pain and with contrition but no flight of generosity run mad opposing all that could be probable or reasonable entered her brain she had led her friend astray and it would be a reproach to her for ever but her judgment was as strong as her feelings and as strong as it had ever been before in reprobating any such alliance for him as most unequal and degrading her way was clear though not quite smoothshe spoke then on being so entreatedwhat did she sayjust what she ought of course a lady always doesshe said enough to shew there need not be despairand to invite him to say more himself he had despaired at one period he had received such an injunction to caution and silence as for the time crushed every hopeshe had begun by refusing to hear himthe change had perhaps been somewhat suddenher proposal of taking another turn her renewing the conversation which she had just put an end to might be a little extraordinaryshe felt its inconsistency but mr knightley was so obliging as to put up with it and seek no farther explanation seldom very seldom does complete truth belong to any human disclosure seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken but where as in this case though the conduct is mistaken the feelings are not it may not be very materialmr knightley could not impute to emma a more relenting heart than she possessed or a heart more disposed to accept of his he had in fact been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence he had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it he had come in his anxiety to see how she bore frank churchills engagement with no selfish view no view at all but of endeavouring if she allowed him an opening to soothe or to counsel herthe rest had been the work of the moment the immediate effect of what he heard on his feelings the delightful assurance of her total indifference towards frank churchill of her having a heart completely disengaged from him had given birth to the hope that in time he might gain her affection himselfbut it had been no present hopehe had only in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach herthe superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more enchantingthe affection which he had been asking to be allowed to create if he could was already hiswithin half an hour he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind to something so like perfect happiness that it could bear no other name her change was equalthis one halfhour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance jealousy or distruston his side there had been a longstanding jealousy old as the arrival or even the expectation of frank churchillhe had been in love with emma and jealous of frank churchill from about the same period one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other it was his jealousy of frank churchill that had taken him from the countrythe box hill party had decided him on going away he would save himself from witnessing again such permitted encouraged attentionshe had gone to learn to be indifferentbut he had gone to a wrong place there was too much domestic happiness in his brothers house woman wore too amiable a form in it isabella was too much like emmadiffering only in those striking inferiorities which always brought the other in brilliancy before him for much to have been done even had his time been longerhe had stayed on however vigorously day after daytill this very mornings post had conveyed the history of jane fairfaxthen with the gladness which must be felt nay which he did not scruple to feel having never believed frank churchill to be at all deserving emma was there so much fond solicitude so much keen anxiety for her that he could stay no longer he had ridden home through the rain and had walked up directly after dinner to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures faultless in spite of all her faults bore the discovery he had found her agitated and lowfrank churchill was a villain he heard her declare that she had never loved him frank churchills character was not desperateshe was his own emma by hand and word when they returned into the house and if he could have thought of frank churchill then he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow xiv what totally different feelings did emma take back into the house from what she had brought outshe had then been only daring to hope for a little respite of sufferingshe was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the flutter should have passed away they sat down to teathe same party round the same tablehow often it had been collectedand how often had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn and observed the same beautiful effect of the western sunbut never in such a state of spirits never in any thing like it and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house or even the attentive daughter poor mr woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming and so anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ridecould he have seen the heart he would have cared very little for the lungs but without the most distant imagination of the impending evil without the slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had received from mr perry and talked on with much selfcontentment totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return as long as mr knightley remained with them emmas fever continued but when he was gone she began to be a little tranquillised and subduedand in the course of the sleepless night which was the tax for such an evening she found one or two such very serious points to consider as made her feel that even her happiness must have some alloy her fatherand harriet she could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims and how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost was the question with respect to her father it was a question soon answered she hardly knew yet what mr knightley would ask but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her fathershe even wept over the idea of it as a sin of thought while he lived it must be only an engagement but she flattered herself that if divested of the danger of drawing her away it might become an increase of comfort to himhow to do her best by harriet was of more difficult decisionhow to spare her from any unnecessary pain how to make her any possible atonement how to appear least her enemyon these subjects her perplexity and distress were very greatand her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded itshe could only resolve at last that she would still avoid a meeting with her and communicate all that need be told by letter that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed just now for a time from highbury andindulging in one scheme morenearly resolve that it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to brunswick squareisabella had been pleased with harriet and a few weeks spent in london must give her some amusementshe did not think it in harriets nature to escape being benefited by novelty and variety by the streets the shops and the childrenat any rate it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself from whom every thing was due a separation for the present an averting of the evil day when they must all be together again she rose early and wrote her letter to harriet an employment which left her so very serious so nearly sad that mr knightley in walking up to hartfield to breakfast did not arrive at all too soon and half an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him literally and figuratively was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the evening before he had not left her long by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any body else when a letter was brought her from randallsa very thick lettershe guessed what it must contain and deprecated the necessity of reading itshe was now in perfect charity with frank churchill she wanted no explanations she wanted only to have her thoughts to herselfand as for understanding any thing he wrote she was sure she was incapable of itit must be waded through however she opened the packet it was too surely soa note from mrs weston to herself ushered in the letter from frank to mrs weston i have the greatest pleasure my dear emma in forwarding to you the enclosed i know what thorough justice you will do it and have scarcely a doubt of its happy effecti think we shall never materially disagree about the writer again but i will not delay you by a long prefacewe are quite wellthis letter has been the cure of all the little nervousness i have been feeling latelyi did not quite like your looks on tuesday but it was an ungenial morning and though you will never own being affected by weather i think every body feels a northeast windi felt for your dear father very much in the storm of tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning but had the comfort of hearing last night by mr perry that it had not made him ill yours ever a w to mrs weston windsorjuly my dear madam if i made myself intelligible yesterday this letter will be expected but expected or not i know it will be read with candour and indulgenceyou are all goodness and i believe there will be need of even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conductbut i have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent my courage rises while i write it is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble i have already met with such success in two applications for pardon that i may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offenceyou must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when i first arrived at randalls you must consider me as having a secret which was to be kept at all hazards this was the fact my right to place myself in a situation requiring such concealment is another question i shall not discuss it here for my temptation to think it a right i refer every caviller to a brick house sashed windows below and casements above in highbury i dared not address her openly my difficulties in the then state of enscombe must be too well known to require definition and i was fortunate enough to prevail before we parted at weymouth and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagementhad she refused i should have gone madbut you will be ready to say what was your hope in doing thiswhat did you look forward toto any thing every thingto time chance circumstance slow effects sudden bursts perseverance and weariness health and sickness every possibility of good was before me and the first of blessings secured in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence if you need farther explanation i have the honour my dear madam of being your husbands son and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value ofsee me then under these circumstances arriving on my first visit to randallsand here i am conscious of wrong for that visit might have been sooner paid you will look back and see that i did not come till miss fairfax was in highbury and as you were the person slighted you will forgive me instantly but i must work on my fathers compassion by reminding him that so long as i absented myself from his house so long i lost the blessing of knowing you my behaviour during the very happy fortnight which i spent with you did not i hope lay me open to reprehension excepting on one point and now i come to the principal the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you which excites my own anxiety or requires very solicitous explanation with the greatest respect and the warmest friendship do i mention miss woodhouse my father perhaps will think i ought to add with the deepest humiliationa few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion and some censure i acknowledge myself liable tomy behaviour to miss woodhouse indicated i believe more than it oughtin order to assist a concealment so essential to me i was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately throwni cannot deny that miss woodhouse was my ostensible objectbut i am sure you will believe the declaration that had i not been convinced of her indifference i would not have been induced by any selfish views to go onamiable and delightful as miss woodhouse is she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me was as much my conviction as my wishshe received my attentions with an easy friendly goodhumoured playfulness which exactly suited me we seemed to understand each other from our relative situation those attentions were her due and were felt to be sowhether miss woodhouse began really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight i cannot saywhen i called to take leave of her i remember that i was within a moment of confessing the truth and i then fancied she was not without suspicion but i have no doubt of her having since detected me at least in some degreeshe may not have surmised the whole but her quickness must have penetrated a part i cannot doubt it you will find whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints that it did not take her wholly by surprize she frequently gave me hints of it i remember her telling me at the ball that i owed mrs elton gratitude for her attentions to miss fairfaxi hope this history of my conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what you saw amiss while you considered me as having sinned against emma woodhouse i could deserve nothing from either acquit me here and procure for me when it is allowable the acquittal and good wishes of that said emma woodhouse whom i regard with so much brotherly affection as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as myselfwhatever strange things i said or did during that fortnight you have now a key to my heart was in highbury and my business was to get my body thither as often as might be and with the least suspicion if you remember any queernesses set them all to the right accountof the pianoforte so much talked of i feel it only necessary to say that its being ordered was absolutely unknown to miss f who would never have allowed me to send it had any choice been given herthe delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement my dear madam is much beyond my power of doing justice to you will soon i earnestly hope know her thoroughly yourselfno description can describe her she must tell you herself what she isyet not by word for never was there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own meritsince i began this letter which will be longer than i foresaw i have heard from hershe gives a good account of her own health but as she never complains i dare not depend i want to have your opinion of her looks i know you will soon call on her she is living in dread of the visit perhaps it is paid already let me hear from you without delay i am impatient for a thousand particulars remember how few minutes i was at randalls and in how bewildered how mad a state and i am not much better yet still insane either from happiness or misery when i think of the kindness and favour i have met with of her excellence and patience and my uncles generosity i am mad with joy but when i recollect all the uneasiness i occasioned her and how little i deserve to be forgiven i am mad with anger if i could but see her againbut i must not propose it yet my uncle has been too good for me to encroachi must still add to this long letter you have not heard all that you ought to hear i could not give any connected detail yesterday but the suddenness and in one light the unseasonableness with which the affair burst out needs explanation for though the event of the 26th ult as you will conclude immediately opened to me the happiest prospects i should not have presumed on such early measures but from the very particular circumstances which left me not an hour to lose i should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinementbut i had no choice the hasty engagement she had entered into with that womanhere my dear madam i was obliged to leave off abruptly to recollect and compose myselfi have been walking over the country and am now i hope rational enough to make the rest of my letter what it ought to beit is in fact a most mortifying retrospect for me i behaved shamefully and here i can admit that my manners to miss w in being unpleasant to miss f were highly blameable she disapproved them which ought to have been enoughmy plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficientshe was displeased i thought unreasonably so i thought her on a thousand occasions unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious i thought her even cold but she was always right if i had followed her judgment and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper i should have escaped the greatest unhappiness i have ever knownwe quarrelled do you remember the morning spent at donwellthere every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis i was late i met her walking home by herself and wanted to walk with her but she would not suffer it she absolutely refused to allow me which i then thought most unreasonable now however i see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion while i to blind the world to our engagement was behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made every previous caution uselesshad we been met walking together between donwell and highbury the truth must have been suspectedi was mad enough however to resenti doubted her affection i doubted it more the next day on box hill when provoked by such conduct on my side such shameful insolent neglect of her and such apparent devotion to miss w as it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to endure she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to mein short my dear madam it was a quarrel blameless on her side abominable on mine and i returned the same evening to richmond though i might have staid with you till the next morning merely because i would be as angry with her as possible even then i was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time but i was the injured person injured by her coldness and i went away determined that she should make the first advancesi shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the box hill party had you witnessed my behaviour there i can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of me again its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it produced as soon as she found i was really gone from randalls she closed with the offer of that officious mrs elton the whole system of whose treatment of her by the bye has ever filled me with indignation and hatred i must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards myself but otherwise i should loudly protest against the share of it which that woman has knownjane indeedyou will observe that i have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name even to you think then what i must have endured in hearing it bandied between the eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition and all the insolence of imaginary superiority have patience with me i shall soon have doneshe closed with this offer resolving to break with me entirely and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet againshe felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each she dissolved itthis letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunts death i answered it within an hour but from the confusion of my mind and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once my answer instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day was locked up in my writingdesk and i trusting that i had written enough though but a few lines to satisfy her remained without any uneasinessi was rather disappointed that i did not hear from her again speedily but i made excuses for her and was too busy andmay i addtoo cheerful in my views to be captiouswe removed to windsor and two days afterwards i received a parcel from her my own letters all returnedand a few lines at the same time by the post stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last and adding that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible she now sent me by a safe conveyance all my letters and requested that if i could not directly command hers so as to send them to highbury within a week i would forward them after that period to her at in short the full direction to mr smallridges near bristol stared me in the face i knew the name the place i knew all about it and instantly saw what she had been doing it was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which i knew her to possess and the secrecy she had maintained as to any such design in her former letter was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy for the world would not she have seemed to threaten meimagine the shock imagine how till i had actually detected my own blunder i raved at the blunders of the postwhat was to be doneone thing onlyi must speak to my uncle without his sanction i could not hope to be listened to againi spoke circumstances were in my favour the late event had softened away his pride and he was earlier than i could have anticipated wholly reconciled and complying and could say at last poor man with a deep sigh that he wished i might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had donei felt that it would be of a different sortare you disposed to pity me for what i must have suffered in opening the cause to him for my suspense while all was at stakeno do not pity me till i reached highbury and saw how ill i had made her do not pity me till i saw her wan sick looksi reached highbury at the time of day when from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour i was certain of a good chance of finding her alonei was not disappointed and at last i was not disappointed either in the object of my journey a great deal of very reasonable very just displeasure i had to persuade away but it is done we are reconciled dearer much dearer than ever and no moments uneasiness can ever occur between us again now my dear madam i will release you but i could not conclude before a thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards herif you think me in a way to be happier than i deserve i am quite of your opinionmiss w calls me the child of good fortune i hope she is rightin one respect my good fortune is undoubted that of being able to subscribe myself your obliged and affectionate son f c weston churchill xv this letter must make its way to emmas feelings she was obliged in spite of her previous determination to the contrary to do it all the justice that mrs weston foretold as soon as she came to her own name it was irresistible every line relating to herself was interesting and almost every line agreeable and when this charm ceased the subject could still maintain itself by the natural return of her former regard for the writer and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment she never stopt till she had gone through the whole and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong yet he had been less wrong than she had supposedand he had suffered and was very sorryand he was so grateful to mrs weston and so much in love with miss fairfax and she was so happy herself that there was no being severe and could he have entered the room she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever she thought so well of the letter that when mr knightley came again she desired him to read it she was sure of mrs westons wishing it to be communicated especially to one who like mr knightley had seen so much to blame in his conduct i shall be very glad to look it over said he but it seems long i will take it home with me at night but that would not do mr weston was to call in the evening and she must return it by him i would rather be talking to you he replied but as it seems a matter of justice it shall be done he beganstopping however almost directly to say had i been offered the sight of one of this gentlemans letters to his motherinlaw a few months ago emma it would not have been taken with such indifference he proceeded a little farther reading to himself and then with a smile observed humph a fine complimentary opening but it is his way one mans style must not be the rule of anothers we will not be severe it will be natural for me he added shortly afterwards to speak my opinion aloud as i read by doing it i shall feel that i am near you it will not be so great a loss of time but if you dislike it not at all i should wish it mr knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity he trifles here said he as to the temptation he knows he is wrong and has nothing rational to urgebadhe ought not to have formed the engagementhis fathers dispositionhe is unjust however to his father mr westons sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions but mr weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain itvery true he did not come till miss fairfax was here and i have not forgotten said emma how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would you pass it over very handsomelybut you were perfectly right i was not quite impartial in my judgment emmabut yet i thinkhad you not been in the casei should still have distrusted him when he came to miss woodhouse he was obliged to read the whole of it aloudall that related to her with a smile a look a shake of the head a word or two of assent or disapprobation or merely of love as the subject required concluding however seriously and after steady reflection thus very badthough it might have been worseplaying a most dangerous game too much indebted to the event for his acquittalno judge of his own manners by youalways deceived in fact by his own wishes and regardless of little besides his own conveniencefancying you to have fathomed his secret natural enoughhis own mind full of intrigue that he should suspect it in othersmystery finessehow they pervert the understanding my emma does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other emma agreed to it and with a blush of sensibility on harriets account which she could not give any sincere explanation of you had better go on said she he did so but very soon stopt again to say the pianoforte ah that was the act of a very very young man one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure a boyish scheme indeedi cannot comprehend a mans wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with and he did know that she would have prevented the instruments coming if she could after this he made some progress without any pause frank churchills confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing i perfectly agree with you sirwas then his remark you did behave very shamefully you never wrote a truer line and having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement and his persisting to act in direct opposition to jane fairfaxs sense of right he made a fuller pause to say this is very badhe had induced her to place herself for his sake in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarilyshe must have had much more to contend with in carrying on the correspondence than he could he should have respected even unreasonable scruples had there been such but hers were all reasonable we must look to her one fault and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment emma knew that he was now getting to the box hill party and grew uncomfortable her own behaviour had been so very improper she was deeply ashamed and a little afraid of his next look it was all read however steadily attentively and without the smallest remark and excepting one momentary glance at her instantly withdrawn in the fear of giving painno remembrance of box hill seemed to exist there is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends the eltons was his next observationhis feelings are naturalwhat actually resolve to break with him entirelyshe felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to eachshe dissolved itwhat a view this gives of her sense of his behaviourwell he must be a most extraordinary nay nay read onyou will find how very much he suffers i hope he does replied mr knightley coolly and resuming the letter smallridgewhat does this mean what is all this she had engaged to go as governess to mrs smallridges childrena dear friend of mrs eltonsa neighbour of maple grove and by the bye i wonder how mrs elton bears the disappointment say nothing my dear emma while you oblige me to readnot even of mrs elton only one page more i shall soon have done what a letter the man writes i wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him well there is feeling herehe does seem to have suffered in finding her illcertainly i can have no doubt of his being fond of her dearer much dearer than ever i hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliationhe is a very liberal thanker with his thousands and tens of thousandshappier than i deserve come he knows himself there miss woodhouse calls me the child of good fortunethose were miss woodhouses words were they and a fine endingand there is the letter the child of good fortune that was your name for him was it you do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as i am but still you must at least i hope you must think the better of him for it i hope it does him some service with you yes certainly it does he has had great faults faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness and i am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves but still as he is beyond a doubt really attached to miss fairfax and will soon it may be hoped have the advantage of being constantly with her i am very ready to believe his character will improve and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants and now let me talk to you of something else i have another persons interest at present so much at heart that i cannot think any longer about frank churchill ever since i left you this morning emma my mind has been hard at work on one subject the subject followed it was in plain unaffected gentlemanlike english such as mr knightley used even to the woman he was in love with how to be able to ask her to marry him without attacking the happiness of her father emmas answer was ready at the first word while her dear father lived any change of condition must be impossible for her she could never quit him part only of this answer however was admitted the impossibility of her quitting her father mr knightley felt as strongly as herself but the inadmissibility of any other change he could not agree to he had been thinking it over most deeply most intently he had at first hoped to induce mr woodhouse to remove with her to donwell he had wanted to believe it feasible but his knowledge of mr woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long and now he confessed his persuasion that such a transplantation would be a risk of her fathers comfort perhaps even of his life which must not be hazarded mr woodhouse taken from hartfieldno he felt that it ought not to be attempted but the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this he trusted his dearest emma would not find in any respect objectionable it was that he should be received at hartfield that so long as her fathers happinessin other words his liferequired hartfield to continue her home it should be his likewise of their all removing to donwell emma had already had her own passing thoughts like him she had tried the scheme and rejected it but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her she was sensible of all the affection it evinced she felt that in quitting donwell he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits that in living constantly with her father and in no house of his own there would be much very much to be borne with she promised to think of it and advised him to think of it more but he was fully convinced that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject he had given it he could assure her very long and calm consideration he had been walking away from william larkins the whole morning to have his thoughts to himself ah there is one difficulty unprovided for cried emma i am sure william larkins will not like it you must get his consent before you ask mine she promised however to think of it and pretty nearly promised moreover to think of it with the intention of finding it a very good scheme it is remarkable that emma in the many very many points of view in which she was now beginning to consider donwell abbey was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew henry whose rights as heirexpectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded think she must of the possible difference to the poor little boy and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it and found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of mr knightleys marrying jane fairfax or any body else which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt this proposal of his this plan of marrying and continuing at hartfieldthe more she contemplated it the more pleasing it became his evils seemed to lessen her own advantages to increase their mutual good to outweigh every drawback such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before hersuch a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy she would have been too happy but for poor harriet but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend who must now be even excluded from hartfield the delightful family party which emma was securing for herself poor harriet must in mere charitable caution be kept at a distance from she would be a loser in every way emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment in such a party harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise but for the poor girl herself it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment in time of course mr knightley would be forgotten that is supplanted but this could not be expected to happen very early mr knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the curenot like mr elton mr knightley always so kind so feeling so truly considerate for every body would never deserve to be less worshipped than now and it really was too much to hope even of harriet that she could be in love with more than three men in one year xvi it was a very great relief to emma to find harriet as desirous as herself to avoid a meeting their intercourse was painful enough by letter how much worse had they been obliged to meet harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed without reproaches or apparent sense of illusage and yet emma fancied there was a something of resentment a something bordering on it in her style which increased the desirableness of their being separateit might be only her own consciousness but it seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke she had no difficulty in procuring isabellas invitation and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it without resorting to inventionthere was a tooth amiss harriet really wished and had wished some time to consult a dentist mrs john knightley was delighted to be of use any thing of ill health was a recommendation to herand though not so fond of a dentist as of a mr wingfield she was quite eager to have harriet under her carewhen it was thus settled on her sisters side emma proposed it to her friend and found her very persuadableharriet was to go she was invited for at least a fortnight she was to be conveyed in mr woodhouses carriageit was all arranged it was all completed and harriet was safe in brunswick square now emma could indeed enjoy mr knightleys visits now she could talk and she could listen with true happiness unchecked by that sense of injustice of guilt of something most painful which had haunted her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her how much might at that moment and at a little distance be enduring by the feelings which she had led astray herself the difference of harriet at mrs goddards or in london made perhaps an unreasonable difference in emmas sensations but she could not think of her in london without objects of curiosity and employment which must be averting the past and carrying her out of herself she would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place in her mind which harriet had occupied there was a communication before her one which she only could be competent to makethe confession of her engagement to her father but she would have nothing to do with it at presentshe had resolved to defer the disclosure till mrs weston were safe and well no additional agitation should be thrown at this period among those she lovedand the evil should not act on herself by anticipation before the appointed timea fortnight at least of leisure and peace of mind to crown every warmer but more agitating delight should be hers she soon resolved equally as a duty and a pleasure to employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on miss fairfaxshe ought to goand she was longing to see her the resemblance of their present situations increasing every other motive of goodwill it would be a secret satisfaction but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing jane might communicate she wentshe had driven once unsuccessfully to the door but had not been into the house since the morning after box hill when poor jane had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion though all the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspectedthe fear of being still unwelcome determined her though assured of their being at home to wait in the passage and send up her nameshe heard patty announcing it but no such bustle succeeded as poor miss bates had before made so happily intelligibleno she heard nothing but the instant reply of beg her to walk upand a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by jane herself coming eagerly forward as if no other reception of her were felt sufficientemma had never seen her look so well so lovely so engaging there was consciousness animation and warmth there was every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted she came forward with an offered hand and said in a low but very feeling tone this is most kind indeedmiss woodhouse it is impossible for me to expressi hope you will believeexcuse me for being so entirely without words emma was gratified and would soon have shewn no want of words if the sound of mrs eltons voice from the sittingroom had not checked her and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into a very very earnest shake of the hand mrs bates and mrs elton were together miss bates was out which accounted for the previous tranquillity emma could have wished mrs elton elsewhere but she was in a humour to have patience with every body and as mrs elton met her with unusual graciousness she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm she soon believed herself to penetrate mrs eltons thoughts and understand why she was like herself in happy spirits it was being in miss fairfaxs confidence and fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to other people emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of her face and while paying her own compliments to mrs bates and appearing to attend to the good old ladys replies she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she had apparently been reading aloud to miss fairfax and return it into the purple and gold reticule by her side saying with significant nods we can finish this some other time you know you and i shall not want opportunities and in fact you have heard all the essential already i only wanted to prove to you that mrs s admits our apology and is not offended you see how delightfully she writes oh she is a sweet creature you would have doated on her had you gonebut not a word more let us be discreetquite on our good behaviourhushyou remember those linesi forget the poem at this moment for when a ladys in the case you know all other things give place now i say my dear in our case for lady readmum a word to the wisei am in a fine flow of spirits ant i but i want to set your heart at ease as to mrs smy representation you see has quite appeased her and again on emmas merely turning her head to look at mrs batess knitting she added in a half whisper i mentioned no names you will observeoh no cautious as a minister of state i managed it extremely well emma could not doubt it was a palpable display repeated on every possible occasion when they had all talked a little while in harmony of the weather and mrs weston she found herself abruptly addressed with do not you think miss woodhouse our saucy little friend here is charmingly recovereddo not you think her cure does perry the highest credithere was a sideglance of great meaning at jane upon my word perry has restored her in a wonderful short timeoh if you had seen her as i did when she was at the worstand when mrs bates was saying something to emma whispered farther we do not say a word of any assistance that perry might have not a word of a certain young physician from windsoroh no perry shall have all the credit i have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you miss woodhouse she shortly afterwards began since the party to box hill very pleasant party but yet i think there was something wanting things did not seemthat is there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of someso it appeared to me at least but i might be mistaken however i think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again what say you both to our collecting the same party and exploring to box hill again while the fine weather lastsit must be the same party you know quite the same party not one exception soon after this miss bates came in and emma could not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself resulting she supposed from doubt of what might be said and impatience to say every thing thank you dear miss woodhouse you are all kindnessit is impossible to sayyes indeed i quite understanddearest janes prospectsthat is i do not meanbut she is charmingly recoveredhow is mr woodhousei am so gladquite out of my powersuch a happy little circle as you find us hereyes indeedcharming young manthat isso very friendly i mean good mr perrysuch attention to janeand from her great her more than commonly thankful delight towards mrs elton for being there emma guessed that there had been a little show of resentment towards jane from the vicarage quarter which was now graciously overcomeafter a few whispers indeed which placed it beyond a guess mrs elton speaking louder said yes here i am my good friend and here i have been so long that anywhere else i should think it necessary to apologise but the truth is that i am waiting for my lord and master he promised to join me here and pay his respects to you what are we to have the pleasure of a call from mr eltonthat will be a favour indeed for i know gentlemen do not like morning visits and mr eltons time is so engaged upon my word it is miss bateshe really is engaged from morning to nightthere is no end of peoples coming to him on some pretence or otherthe magistrates and overseers and churchwardens are always wanting his opinion they seem not able to do any thing without himupon my word mr e i often say rather you than ii do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument if i had half so many applicantsbad enough as it is for i absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degreei believe i have not played a bar this fortnighthowever he is coming i assure you yes indeed on purpose to wait on you all and putting up her hand to screen her words from emmaa congratulatory visit you knowoh yes quite indispensable miss bates looked about her so happily he promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from knightley but he and knightley are shut up together in deep consultationmr e is knightleys right hand emma would not have smiled for the world and only said is mr elton gone on foot to donwellhe will have a hot walk oh no it is a meeting at the crown a regular meeting weston and cole will be there too but one is apt to speak only of those who leadi fancy mr e and knightley have every thing their own way have not you mistaken the day said emma i am almost certain that the meeting at the crown is not till tomorrowmr knightley was at hartfield yesterday and spoke of it as for saturday oh no the meeting is certainly today was the abrupt answer which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on mrs eltons sidei do believe she continued this is the most troublesome parish that ever was we never heard of such things at maple grove your parish there was small said jane upon my word my dear i do not know for i never heard the subject talked of but it is proved by the smallness of the school which i have heard you speak of as under the patronage of your sister and mrs bragge the only school and not more than fiveandtwenty children ah you clever creature thats very true what a thinking brain you have i say jane what a perfect character you and i should make if we could be shaken together my liveliness and your solidity would produce perfectionnot that i presume to insinuate however that some people may not think you perfection alreadybut hushnot a word if you please it seemed an unnecessary caution jane was wanting to give her words not to mrs elton but to miss woodhouse as the latter plainly saw the wish of distinguishing her as far as civility permitted was very evident though it could not often proceed beyond a look mr elton made his appearance his lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity very pretty sir upon my word to send me on here to be an encumbrance to my friends so long before you vouchsafe to comebut you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with you knew i should not stir till my lord and master appearedhere have i been sitting this hour giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obediencefor who can say you know how soon it may be wanted mr elton was so hot and tired that all this wit seemed thrown away his civilities to the other ladies must be paid but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering and the walk he had had for nothing when i got to donwell said he knightley could not be found very odd very unaccountable after the note i sent him this morning and the message he returned that he should certainly be at home till one donwell cried his wifemy dear mr e you have not been to donwellyou mean the crown you come from the meeting at the crown no no thats tomorrow and i particularly wanted to see knightley today on that very accountsuch a dreadful broiling morningi went over the fields toospeaking in a tone of great illusage which made it so much the worse and then not to find him at home i assure you i am not at all pleased and no apology left no message for me the housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expectedvery extraordinaryand nobody knew at all which way he was gone perhaps to hartfield perhaps to the abbey mill perhaps into his woodsmiss woodhouse this is not like our friend knightleycan you explain it emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary indeed and that she had not a syllable to say for him i cannot imagine said mrs elton feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do i cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you of all people in the world the very last person whom one should expect to be forgottenmy dear mr e he must have left a message for you i am sure he mustnot even knightley could be so very eccentricand his servants forgot it depend upon it that was the case and very likely to happen with the donwell servants who are all i have often observed extremely awkward and remissi am sure i would not have such a creature as his harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration and as for mrs hodges wright holds her very cheap indeedshe promised wright a receipt and never sent it i met william larkins continued mr elton as i got near the house and he told me i should not find his master at home but i did not believe himwilliam seemed rather out of humour he did not know what was come to his master lately he said but he could hardly ever get the speech of him i have nothing to do with williams wants but it really is of very great importance that i should see knightley today and it becomes a matter therefore of very serious inconvenience that i should have had this hot walk to no purpose emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly in all probability she was at this very time waited for there and mr knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards mr elton if not towards william larkins she was pleased on taking leave to find miss fairfax determined to attend her out of the room to go with her even downstairs it gave her an opportunity which she immediately made use of to say it is as well perhaps that i have not had the possibility had you not been surrounded by other friends i might have been tempted to introduce a subject to ask questions to speak more openly than might have been strictly correcti feel that i should certainly have been impertinent oh cried jane with a blush and an hesitation which emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual composurethere would have been no danger the danger would have been of my wearying you you could not have gratified me more than by expressing an interest indeed miss woodhouse speaking more collectedly with the consciousness which i have of misconduct very great misconduct it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my friends whose good opinion is most worth preserving are not disgusted to such a degree as toi have not time for half that i could wish to say i long to make apologies excuses to urge something for myself i feel it so very due but unfortunatelyin short if your compassion does not stand my friend oh you are too scrupulous indeed you are cried emma warmly and taking her hand you owe me no apologies and every body to whom you might be supposed to owe them is so perfectly satisfied so delighted even you are very kind but i know what my manners were to youso cold and artificiali had always a part to actit was a life of deceiti know that i must have disgusted you pray say no more i feel that all the apologies should be on my side let us forgive each other at once we must do whatever is to be done quickest and i think our feelings will lose no time there i hope you have pleasant accounts from windsor very and the next news i suppose will be that we are to lose youjust as i begin to know you oh as to all that of course nothing can be thought of yet i am here till claimed by colonel and mrs campbell nothing can be actually settled yet perhaps replied emma smilingbut excuse me it must be thought of the smile was returned as jane answered you are very right it has been thought of and i will own to you i am sure it will be safe that so far as our living with mr churchill at enscombe it is settled there must be three months at least of deep mourning but when they are over i imagine there will be nothing more to wait for thank you thank youthis is just what i wanted to be assured ofoh if you knew how much i love every thing that is decided and opengoodbye goodbye xvii mrs westons friends were all made happy by her safety and if the satisfaction of her welldoing could be increased to emma it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl she had been decided in wishing for a miss weston she would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a match for her hereafter with either of isabellas sons but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best it would be a great comfort to mr weston as he grew olderand even mr weston might be growing older ten years henceto have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home and mrs westonno one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach should not have their powers in exercise again she has had the advantage you know of practising on me she continuedlike la baronne dalmane on la comtesse dostalis in madame de genlis adelaide and theodore and we shall now see her own little adelaide educated on a more perfect plan that is replied mr knightley she will indulge her even more than she did you and believe that she does not indulge her at all it will be the only difference poor child cried emma at that rate what will become of her nothing very badthe fate of thousands she will be disagreeable in infancy and correct herself as she grows older i am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children my dearest emma i who am owing all my happiness to you would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them emma laughed and replied but i had the assistance of all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people i doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me without it do youi have no doubt nature gave you understandingmiss taylor gave you principles you must have done well my interference was quite as likely to do harm as good it was very natural for you to say what right has he to lecture meand i am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner i do not believe i did you any good the good was all to myself by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me i could not think about you so much without doating on you faults and all and by dint of fancying so many errors have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least i am sure you were of use to me cried emma i was very often influenced rightly by youoftener than i would own at the time i am very sure you did me good and if poor little anna weston is to be spoiled it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me except falling in love with her when she is thirteen how often when you were a girl have you said to me with one of your saucy looksmr knightley i am going to do soandso papa says i may or i have miss taylors leavesomething which you knew i did not approve in such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one what an amiable creature i wasno wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance mr knightleyyou always called me mr knightley and from habit it has not so very formal a soundand yet it is formal i want you to call me something else but i do not know what i remember once calling you george in one of my amiable fits about ten years ago i did it because i thought it would offend you but as you made no objection i never did it again and cannot you call me george now impossiblei never can call you any thing but mr knightley i will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of mrs elton by calling you mr kbut i will promise she added presently laughing and blushingi will promise to call you once by your christian name i do not say when but perhaps you may guess wherein the building in which n takes m for better for worse emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly folliesher wilful intimacy with harriet smith but it was too tender a subjectshe could not enter on itharriet was very seldom mentioned between them this on his side might merely proceed from her not being thought of but emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy and a suspicion from some appearances that their friendship were declining she was aware herself that parting under any other circumstances they certainly should have corresponded more and that her intelligence would not have rested as it now almost wholly did on isabellas letters he might observe that it was so the pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him was very little inferior to the pain of having made harriet unhappy isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits which appeared perfectly natural as there was a dentist to be consulted but since that business had been over she did not appear to find harriet different from what she had known her beforeisabella to be sure was no very quick observer yet if harriet had not been equal to playing with the children it would not have escaped her emmas comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on by harriets being to stay longer her fortnight was likely to be a month at least mr and mrs john knightley were to come down in august and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back john does not even mention your friend said mr knightley here is his answer if you like to see it it was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage emma accepted it with a very eager hand with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned john enters like a brother into my happiness continued mr knightley but he is no complimenter and though i well know him to have likewise a most brotherly affection for you he is so far from making flourishes that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise but i am not afraid of your seeing what he writes he writes like a sensible man replied emma when she had read the letter i honour his sincerity it is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side but that he is not without hope of my growing in time as worthy of your affection as you think me already had he said any thing to bear a different construction i should not have believed him my emma he means no such thing he only means he and i should differ very little in our estimation of the two interrupted she with a sort of serious smilemuch less perhaps than he is aware of if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject emma my dear emma oh she cried with more thorough gaiety if you fancy your brother does not do me justice only wait till my dear father is in the secret and hear his opinion depend upon it he will be much farther from doing you justice he will think all the happiness all the advantage on your side of the question all the merit on mine i wish i may not sink into poor emma with him at oncehis tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther ah he cried i wish your father might be half as easily convinced as john will be of our having every right that equal worth can give to be happy together i am amused by one part of johns letterdid you notice itwhere he says that my information did not take him wholly by surprize that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind if i understand your brother he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying he had no idea of me he seems perfectly unprepared for that yes yesbut i am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings what has he been judging byi am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at anotherbut it was so i suppose i dare say there was a difference when i was staying with them the other day i believe i did not play with the children quite so much as usual i remember one evening the poor boys saying uncle seems always tired now the time was coming when the news must spread farther and other persons reception of it tried as soon as mrs weston was sufficiently recovered to admit mr woodhouses visits emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause resolved first to announce it at home and then at randallsbut how to break it to her father at lastshe had bound herself to do it in such an hour of mr knightleys absence or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her and she must have put it off but mr knightley was to come at such a time and follow up the beginning she was to makeshe was forced to speak and to speak cheerfully too she must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him by a melancholy tone herself she must not appear to think it a misfortunewith all the spirits she could command she prepared him first for something strange and then in a few words said that if his consent and approbation could be obtainedwhich she trusted would be attended with no difficulty since it was a plan to promote the happiness of allshe and mr knightley meant to marry by which means hartfield would receive the constant addition of that persons company whom she knew he loved next to his daughters and mrs weston best in the world poor manit was at first a considerable shock to him and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it she was reminded more than once of having always said she would never marry and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single and told of poor isabella and poor miss taylorbut it would not do emma hung about him affectionately and smiled and said it must be so and that he must not class her with isabella and mrs weston whose marriages taking them from hartfield had indeed made a melancholy change but she was not going from hartfield she should be always there she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having mr knightley always at hand when he were once got used to the ideadid he not love mr knightley very muchhe would not deny that he did she was surewhom did he ever want to consult on business but mr knightleywho was so useful to him who so ready to write his letters who so glad to assist himwho so cheerful so attentive so attached to himwould not he like to have him always on the spotyes that was all very true mr knightley could not be there too often he should be glad to see him every daybut they did see him every day as it waswhy could not they go on as they had done mr woodhouse could not be soon reconciled but the worst was overcome the idea was given time and continual repetition must do the restto emmas entreaties and assurances succeeded mr knightleys whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome and he was soon used to be talked to by each on every fair occasionthey had all the assistance which isabella could give by letters of the strongest approbation and mrs weston was ready on the first meeting to consider the subject in the most serviceable lightfirst as a settled and secondly as a good onewell aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to mr woodhouses mindit was agreed upon as what was to be and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it he began to think that some time or otherin another year or two perhapsit might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place mrs weston was acting no part feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the eventshe had been extremely surprized never more so than when emma first opened the affair to her but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all and had no scruple in urging him to the utmostshe had such a regard for mr knightley as to think he deserved even her dearest emma and it was in every respect so proper suitable and unexceptionable a connexion and in one respect one point of the highest importance so peculiarly eligible so singularly fortunate that now it seemed as if emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it and wished it long agohow very few of those men in a rank of life to address emma would have renounced their own home for hartfield and who but mr knightley could know and bear with mr woodhouse so as to make such an arrangement desirablethe difficulty of disposing of poor mr woodhouse had been always felt in her husbands plans and her own for a marriage between frank and emma how to settle the claims of enscombe and hartfield had been a continual impedimentless acknowledged by mr weston than by herselfbut even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by sayingthose matters will take care of themselves the young people will find a way but here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future it was all right all open all equal no sacrifice on any side worth the name it was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself and without one real rational difficulty to oppose or delay it mrs weston with her baby on her knee indulging in such reflections as these was one of the happiest women in the world if any thing could increase her delight it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps the news was universally a surprize wherever it spread and mr weston had his five minutes share of it but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mindhe saw the advantages of the match and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife but the wonder of it was very soon nothing and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it it is to be a secret i conclude said he these matters are always a secret till it is found out that every body knows them only let me be told when i may speak outi wonder whether jane has any suspicion he went to highbury the next morning and satisfied himself on that point he told her the news was not she like a daughter his eldest daughterhe must tell her and miss bates being present it passed of course to mrs cole mrs perry and mrs elton immediately afterwards it was no more than the principals were prepared for they had calculated from the time of its being known at randalls how soon it would be over highbury and were thinking of themselves as the evening wonder in many a family circle with great sagacity in general it was a very well approved match some might think him and others might think her the most in luck one set might recommend their all removing to donwell and leaving hartfield for the john knightleys and another might predict disagreements among their servants but yet upon the whole there was no serious objection raised except in one habitation the vicaragethere the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction mr elton cared little about it compared with his wife he only hoped the young ladys pride would now be contented and supposed she had always meant to catch knightley if she could and on the point of living at hartfield could daringly exclaim rather he than ibut mrs elton was very much discomposed indeedpoor knightley poor fellowsad business for himshe was extremely concerned for though very eccentric he had a thousand good qualitieshow could he be so taken indid not think him at all in lovenot in the leastpoor knightleythere would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with himhow happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him but that would be all over nowpoor fellowno more exploring parties to donwell made for her oh no there would be a mrs knightley to throw cold water on every thingextremely disagreeable but she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other dayshocking plan living together it would never do she knew a family near maple grove who had tried it and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter xviii time passed on a few more tomorrows and the party from london would be arriving it was an alarming change and emma was thinking of it one morning as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her when mr knightley came in and distressing thoughts were put by after the first chat of pleasure he was silent and then in a graver tone began with i have something to tell you emma some news good or bad said she quickly looking up in his face i do not know which it ought to be called oh good i am surei see it in your countenance you are trying not to smile i am afraid said he composing his features i am very much afraid my dear emma that you will not smile when you hear it indeed but why soi can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you should not please and amuse me too there is one subject he replied i hope but one on which we do not think alike he paused a moment again smiling with his eyes fixed on her face does nothing occur to youdo not you recollectharriet smith her cheeks flushed at the name and she felt afraid of something though she knew not what have you heard from her yourself this morning cried he you have i believe and know the whole no i have not i know nothing pray tell me you are prepared for the worst i seeand very bad it is harriet smith marries robert martin emma gave a start which did not seem like being preparedand her eyes in eager gaze said no this is impossible but her lips were closed it is so indeed continued mr knightley i have it from robert martin himself he left me not half an hour ago she was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement you like it my emma as little as i fearedi wish our opinions were the same but in time they will time you may be sure will make one or the other of us think differently and in the meanwhile we need not talk much on the subject you mistake me you quite mistake me she replied exerting herself it is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy but i cannot believe it it seems an impossibilityyou cannot mean to say that harriet smith has accepted robert martin you cannot mean that he has even proposed to her againyet you only mean that he intends it i mean that he has done it answered mr knightley with smiling but determined decision and been accepted good god she criedwellthen having recourse to her workbasket in excuse for leaning down her face and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing she added well now tell me every thing make this intelligible to me how where whenlet me know it all i never was more surprizedbut it does not make me unhappy i assure youhowhow has it been possible it is a very simple story he went to town on business three days ago and i got him to take charge of some papers which i was wanting to send to johnhe delivered these papers to john at his chambers and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to astleys they were going to take the two eldest boys to astleys the party was to be our brother and sister henry johnand miss smith my friend robert could not resist they called for him in their way were all extremely amused and my brother asked him to dine with them the next daywhich he didand in the course of that visit as i understand he found an opportunity of speaking to harriet and certainly did not speak in vainshe made him by her acceptance as happy even as he is deserving he came down by yesterdays coach and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast to report his proceedings first on my affairs and then on his own this is all that i can relate of the how where and when your friend harriet will make a much longer history when you see hershe will give you all the minute particulars which only womans language can make interestingin our communications we deal only in the greathowever i must say that robert martins heart seemed for him and to me very overflowing and that he did mention without its being much to the purpose that on quitting their box at astleys my brother took charge of mrs john knightley and little john and he followed with miss smith and henry and that at one time they were in such a crowd as to make miss smith rather uneasy he stoppedemma dared not attempt any immediate reply to speak she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness she must wait a moment or he would think her mad her silence disturbed him and after observing her a little while he added emma my love you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy but i am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected his situation is an evilbut you must consider it as what satisfies your friend and i will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more his good sense and good principles would delight youas far as the man is concerned you could not wish your friend in better hands his rank in society i would alter if i could which is saying a great deal i assure you emmayou laugh at me about william larkins but i could quite as ill spare robert martin he wanted her to look up and smile and having now brought herself not to smile too broadlyshe didcheerfully answering you need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match i think harriet is doing extremely well her connexions may be worse than his in respectability of character there can be no doubt that they are i have been silent from surprize merely excessive surprize you cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me how peculiarly unprepared i wasfor i had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him much more than she was before you ought to know your friend best replied mr knightley but i should say she was a goodtempered softhearted girl not likely to be very very determined against any young man who told her he loved her emma could not help laughing as she answered upon my word i believe you know her quite as well as i dobut mr knightley are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright accepted him i could suppose she might in timebut can she alreadydid not you misunderstand himyou were both talking of other things of business shows of cattle or new drillsand might not you in the confusion of so many subjects mistake himit was not harriets hand that he was certain ofit was the dimensions of some famous ox the contrast between the countenance and air of mr knightley and robert martin was at this moment so strong to emmas feelings and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on harriets side so fresh the sound of those words spoken with such emphasis no i hope i know better than to think of robert martin that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove in some measure premature it could not be otherwise do you dare say this cried mr knightley do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead as not to know what a man is talking ofwhat do you deserve oh i always deserve the best treatment because i never put up with any other and therefore you must give me a plain direct answer are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which mr martin and harriet now are i am quite sure he replied speaking very distinctly that he told me she had accepted him and that there was no obscurity nothing doubtful in the words he used and i think i can give you a proof that it must be so he asked my opinion as to what he was now to do he knew of no one but mrs goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends could i mention any thing more fit to be done than to go to mrs goddard i assured him that i could not then he said he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day i am perfectly satisfied replied emma with the brightest smiles and most sincerely wish them happy you are materially changed since we talked on this subject before i hope sofor at that time i was a fool and i am changed also for i am now very willing to grant you all harriets good qualities i have taken some pains for your sake and for robert martins sake whom i have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever to get acquainted with her i have often talked to her a good deal you must have seen that i did sometimes indeed i have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor martins cause which was never the case but from all my observations i am convinced of her being an artless amiable girl with very good notions very seriously good principles and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic lifemuch of this i have no doubt she may thank you for me cried emma shaking her headah poor harriet she checked herself however and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father she was not sorry she wanted to be alone her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder which made it impossible for her to be collected she was in dancing singing exclaiming spirits and till she had moved about and talked to herself and laughed and reflected she could be fit for nothing rational her fathers business was to announce jamess being gone out to put the horses to preparatory to their now daily drive to randalls and she had therefore an immediate excuse for disappearing the joy the gratitude the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined the sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of harriets welfare she was really in danger of becoming too happy for securitywhat had she to wish for nothing but to grow more worthy of him whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own nothing but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future serious she was very serious in her thankfulness and in her resolutions and yet there was no preventing a laugh sometimes in the very midst of them she must laugh at such a close such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back such a heartsuch a harriet now there would be pleasure in her returningevery thing would be a pleasure it would be a great pleasure to know robert martin high in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from mr knightley would soon be over the disguise equivocation mystery so hateful to her to practise might soon be over she could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty in the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father not always listening but always agreeing to what he said and whether in speech or silence conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to randalls every day or poor mrs weston would be disappointed they arrivedmrs weston was alone in the drawingroombut hardly had they been told of the baby and mr woodhouse received the thanks for coming which he asked for when a glimpse was caught through the blind of two figures passing near the window it is frank and miss fairfax said mrs weston i was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning he stays till tomorrow and miss fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with usthey are coming in i hope in half a minute they were in the room emma was extremely glad to see himbut there was a degree of confusiona number of embarrassing recollections on each side they met readily and smiling but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said and having all sat down again there was for some time such a blank in the circle that emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged which she had long felt of seeing frank churchill once more and of seeing him with jane would yield its proportion of pleasure when mr weston joined the party however and when the baby was fetched there was no longer a want of subject or animationor of courage and opportunity for frank churchill to draw near her and say i have to thank you miss woodhouse for a very kind forgiving message in one of mrs westons letters i hope time has not made you less willing to pardon i hope you do not retract what you then said no indeed cried emma most happy to begin not in the least i am particularly glad to see and shake hands with youand to give you joy in person he thanked her with all his heart and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness is not she looking well said he turning his eyes towards jane better than she ever used to doyou see how my father and mrs weston doat upon her but his spirits were soon rising again and with laughing eyes after mentioning the expected return of the campbells he named the name of dixonemma blushed and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing i can never think of it she cried without extreme shame the shame he answered is all mine or ought to be but is it possible that you had no suspicioni mean of late early i know you had none i never had the smallest i assure you that appears quite wonderful i was once very nearand i wish i hadit would have been better but though i was always doing wrong things they were very bad wrong things and such as did me no serviceit would have been a much better transgression had i broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing it is not now worth a regret said emma i have some hope resumed he of my uncles being persuaded to pay a visit at randalls he wants to be introduced to her when the campbells are returned we shall meet them in london and continue there i trust till we may carry her northwardbut now i am at such a distance from heris not it hard miss woodhousetill this morning we have not once met since the day of reconciliation do not you pity me emma spoke her pity so very kindly that with a sudden accession of gay thought he cried ah by the bye then sinking his voice and looking demure for the momenti hope mr knightley is well he pausedshe coloured and laughedi know you saw my letter and think you may remember my wish in your favour let me return your congratulationsi assure you that i have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfactionhe is a man whom i cannot presume to praise emma was delighted and only wanted him to go on in the same style but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own jane and his next words were did you ever see such a skinsuch smoothness such delicacyand yet without being actually fairone cannot call her fair it is a most uncommon complexion with her dark eyelashes and haira most distinguishing complexion so peculiarly the lady in itjust colour enough for beauty i have always admired her complexion replied emma archly but do not i remember the time when you found fault with her for being so palewhen we first began to talk of herhave you quite forgotten oh nowhat an impudent dog i washow could i dare but he laughed so heartily at the recollection that emma could not help saying i do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time you had very great amusement in tricking us alli am sure you hadi am sure it was a consolation to you oh no no nohow can you suspect me of such a thing i was the most miserable wretch not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth i am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you to feel that you were taking us all inperhaps i am the readier to suspect because to tell you the truth i think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation i think there is a little likeness between us he bowed if not in our dispositions she presently added with a look of true sensibility there is a likeness in our destiny the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own true true he answered warmly no not true on your side you can have no superior but most true on mineshe is a complete angel look at her is not she an angel in every gesture observe the turn of her throat observe her eyes as she is looking up at my fatheryou will be glad to hear inclining his head and whispering seriously that my uncle means to give her all my aunts jewels they are to be new set i am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head will not it be beautiful in her dark hair very beautiful indeed replied emma and she spoke so kindly that he gratefully burst out how delighted i am to see you again and to see you in such excellent looksi would not have missed this meeting for the world i should certainly have called at hartfield had you failed to come the others had been talking of the child mrs weston giving an account of a little alarm she had been under the evening before from the infants appearing not quite well she believed she had been foolish but it had alarmed her and she had been within half a minute of sending for mr perry perhaps she ought to be ashamed but mr weston had been almost as uneasy as herselfin ten minutes however the child had been perfectly well again this was her history and particularly interesting it was to mr woodhouse who commended her very much for thinking of sending for perry and only regretted that she had not done it she should always send for perry if the child appeared in the slightest degree disordered were it only for a moment she could not be too soon alarmed nor send for perry too often it was a pity perhaps that he had not come last night for though the child seemed well now very well considering it would probably have been better if perry had seen it frank churchill caught the name perry said he to emma and trying as he spoke to catch miss fairfaxs eye my friend mr perry what are they saying about mr perryhas he been here this morningand how does he travel nowhas he set up his carriage emma soon recollected and understood him and while she joined in the laugh it was evident from janes countenance that she too was really hearing him though trying to seem deaf such an extraordinary dream of mine he cried i can never think of it without laughingshe hears us she hears us miss woodhouse i see it in her cheek her smile her vain attempt to frown look at her do not you see that at this instant the very passage of her own letter which sent me the report is passing under her eyethat the whole blunder is spread before herthat she can attend to nothing else though pretending to listen to the others jane was forced to smile completely for a moment and the smile partly remained as she turned towards him and said in a conscious low yet steady voice how you can bear such recollections is astonishing to methey will sometimes obtrudebut how you can court them he had a great deal to say in return and very entertainingly but emmas feelings were chiefly with jane in the argument and on leaving randalls and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men she felt that pleased as she had been to see frank churchill and really regarding him as she did with friendship she had never been more sensible of mr knightleys high superiority of character the happiness of this most happy day received its completion in the animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced xix if emma had still at intervals an anxious feeling for harriet a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to mr knightley and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty a very few days brought the party from london and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with harriet than she became perfectly satisfiedunaccountable as it wasthat robert martin had thoroughly supplanted mr knightley and was now forming all her views of happiness harriet was a little distresseddid look a little foolish at first but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly and selfdeceived before her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words and leave her without a care for the past and with the fullest exultation in the present and future for as to her friends approbation emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulationsharriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at astleys and the dinner the next day she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight but what did such particulars explainthe fact was as emma could now acknowledge that harriet had always liked robert martin and that his continuing to love her had been irresistiblebeyond this it must ever be unintelligible to emma the event however was most joyful and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking soharriets parentage became known she proved to be the daughter of a tradesman rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers and decent enough to have always wished for concealmentsuch was the blood of gentility which emma had formerly been so ready to vouch forit was likely to be as untainted perhaps as the blood of many a gentleman but what a connexion had she been preparing for mr knightleyor for the churchillsor even for mr eltonthe stain of illegitimacy unbleached by nobility or wealth would have been a stain indeed no objection was raised on the fathers side the young man was treated liberally it was all as it should be and as emma became acquainted with robert martin who was now introduced at hartfield she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend she had no doubt of harriets happiness with any goodtempered man but with him and in the home he offered there would be the hope of more of security stability and improvement she would be placed in the midst of those who loved her and who had better sense than herself retired enough for safety and occupied enough for cheerfulness she would be never led into temptation nor left for it to find her out she would be respectable and happy and emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a manor if not quite the luckiest to yield only to herself harriet necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the martins was less and less at hartfield which was not to be regrettedthe intimacy between her and emma must sink their friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill and fortunately what ought to be and must be seemed already beginning and in the most gradual natural manner before the end of september emma attended harriet to church and saw her hand bestowed on robert martin with so complete a satisfaction as no remembrances even connected with mr elton as he stood before them could impairperhaps indeed at that time she scarcely saw mr elton but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on herselfrobert martin and harriet smith the latest couple engaged of the three were the first to be married jane fairfax had already quitted highbury and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the campbellsthe mr churchills were also in town and they were only waiting for november the intermediate month was the one fixed on as far as they dared by emma and mr knightleythey had determined that their marriage ought to be concluded while john and isabella were still at hartfield to allow them the fortnights absence in a tour to the seaside which was the planjohn and isabella and every other friend were agreed in approving it but mr woodhousehow was mr woodhouse to be induced to consenthe who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event when first sounded on the subject he was so miserable that they were almost hopelessa second allusion indeed gave less painhe began to think it was to be and that he could not prevent ita very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation still however he was not happy nay he appeared so much otherwise that his daughters courage failed she could not bear to see him suffering to know him fancying himself neglected and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the mr knightleys that when once the event were over his distress would be soon over too she hesitatedshe could not proceed in this state of suspense they were befriended not by any sudden illumination of mr woodhouses mind or any wonderful change of his nervous system but by the operation of the same system in another waymrs westons poultryhouse was robbed one night of all her turkeysevidently by the ingenuity of man other poultryyards in the neighbourhood also sufferedpilfering was housebreaking to mr woodhouses fearshe was very uneasy and but for the sense of his soninlaws protection would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life the strength resolution and presence of mind of the mr knightleys commanded his fullest dependence while either of them protected him and his hartfield was safebut mr john knightley must be in london again by the end of the first week in november the result of this distress was that with a much more voluntary cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment she was able to fix her weddingdayand mr elton was called on within a month from the marriage of mr and mrs robert martin to join the hands of mr knightley and miss woodhouse the wedding was very much like other weddings where the parties have no taste for finery or parade and mrs elton from the particulars detailed by her husband thought it all extremely shabby and very inferior to her ownvery little white satin very few lace veils a most pitiful businessselina would stare when she heard of itbut in spite of these deficiencies the wishes the hopes the confidence the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union finis '

[]